


Fluorescent Adolescents

by whoishannah



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, High School AU, M/M, but is also a teenage boy who says dude a lot, combeferre is smart as shit, eponine needs a tutor, everyone is paired off - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoishannah/pseuds/whoishannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eponine gazes at the bulletin board with disdain. So she failed a few (four) Calc tests in a row. It’s not her fault that she forgot to schedule classes until the last minute and the only class open fifth period was AP Calculus. It’s not her fault that instead of studying differential equations she’s working her ass off to make enough money to get away from her parents. It’s not her fault that while making sure Gavroche does his homework she neglects to do her own. Eponine is, as her teacher puts it, not AP material. </p>
<p>But Eponine is not a quitter. So she’s in the school library (she’s surprised she even knew where it was) and she’s eyeing the flyer on the bulletin board as if it’s going to grow fangs and bite her. The flyer reads, “MATH TUTORING - ALGEBRA, GEOMETRY, TRIGONOMETRY, CALCULUS” and below is a phone number. </p>
<p>She dials it. It rings. Some guy answers. </p>
<p>(or: Eponine needs a calculus tutor and it happens to be Combeferre and hijinks ensue)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i love high school AUs and Eponine/Combeferre and there is a severe lack of both on this website so here i am. enjoy and i hope they're not too OOC but remember that they're 17 and in a modern high school setting  
> thank u

Eponine gazes at the bulletin board with disdain. So she failed a few (four) Calc tests in a row. It’s not her fault that she forgot to schedule classes until the last minute and the only class open fifth period was AP Calculus. It’s not her fault that instead of studying differential equations she’s working her ass off to make enough money to get away from her parents. It’s not her fault that while making sure Gavroche does his homework she neglects to do her own. Eponine is, as her teacher puts it, not AP material.

 

But Eponine is not a quitter. So she’s in the school library (she’s surprised she even knew where it was) and she’s eyeing the flyer on the bulletin board as if it’s going to grow fangs and bite her. The flyer reads, “MATH TUTORING - ALGEBRA, GEOMETRY, TRIGONOMETRY, CALCULUS” and below is a phone number.

 

She dials it. It rings. Some guy answers.

 

“Hello?” the guy says.

 

“Um, yeah, hi, this is Eponine Thenardier. I saw your flyer? In the library? And I guess I need, uh, math help?” she says. Asking for help is not number one on Eponine’s list of favorite things to do.

 

“Hey! This is Combeferre -- we have Calc together. Fifth period?” the guy responds. Eponine groans inwardly. Combeferre is a genuinely nice person. He hangs out with Enjolras and his band of social justice vigilantes, and while Eponine finds Enjolras a little off-putting (seriously, what rich teenage white boy cares THAT much about civil rights?) she cannot bring herself to dislike the group. Not to mention that the eleven members of the ABC Society make up like, half of the diversity in the entire school. In a sea of racist and homophobic douchebags there exists this random group of racially diverse queers and it’s kind of awesome, if she’s being honest. She’s not one for organized clubs or extracurriculars, but she can’t help but admire them.

 

Combeferre is one of those guys who bothers to learn everybody’s name in class, even the recluses and the stoners and the Eponines and the Grantaires. He’s the type who reads books about moths for pleasure and decides to learn how to speak Albanian in a weekend and tutors kids in math.

 

“Oh, hey,” she says, mildly embarrassed. She had hoped it had been someone she didn’t have to see on a daily basis. “Yeah, so like, Hayes’ last few tests were killer and I kind of need to not fail this class, so… I need a tutor I guess. Yeah.”

 

Combeferre chuckles, “I definitely know what you mean.” Is he joking? Eponine knows for a fact that he’s never gotten less than a 95 on a Calc test, or any test for that matter. “Integration by parts is wild, and totally weird. Once you get the hang of it, though, you’re set for life. But, um, anyways. What days work for you?”

 

Eponine is not sure how to deal with Combeferre. She hangs out with Grantaire, who, while being a sarcastic asshole 200% of the time, comes off as chipper and optimistic compared to the people she encounters at home. So she’s not sure how to react to Combeferre’s upbeat, genuine loquaciousness.

 

“Uh, I have work Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after school. But I’m free Mondays and Thursdays. I can do before school too if you want,” she says.

 

“That’s great! What about Mondays after school and, uh,” he paused as if he was looking at a calendar, checking his schedule. He probably was. “Maybe Wednesdays before school too? I have track practice on Thursdays after school.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

 

Another thing about Combeferre is, in addition to the fact that he’s the the nicest nerdy social justice warrior hipster ever, he’s into sports too. Compared to Eponine, who smokes behind the Art building and can’t run a mile, he’s a suburban mom’s wet dream.

 

“Um, yeah, that works. Thanks so much for this,” Eponine says awkwardly, “So Mondays and Wednesdays in the library? How much do you charge for each session?”

 

Combeferre laughs, “It’s totally free, dude! I just like to help people and it turns out I’m pretty good at it, so I do it. But yeah, Mondays and Wednesdays in the library. You can text me at this number if anything changes.”

 

Eponine literally cringes at accepting free Calculus help from Combeferre, but what can she do?

“Wow, that’s really awesome. Okay. Wow. So, thanks again, um, I guess I’ll see you in class?”

 

“See you, Eponine.”

 

She hangs up. She wishes she never called.

 

Grantaire picks her up for school on Monday, as usual. She climbs into the front seat, pulling her bag in behind her.

 

“I’m fucking hungry,” she yawns, “Lets get food.”

 

“Good morning,” he says.   
  


She looks at him. She looks tired. No amount of concealer can hide her under eye circles. “Good morning. I’m fucking hungry. Let’s get food.”

 

She gets a bagel and an iced coffee. She pays for Grantaire; she has a job, after all. She likes being able to buy things, anyway. And Grantaire drives her places, so she figures she owes him.

They’re almost late coming into school but Eponine truly believes coffee and bagels are worth it.

Homeroom is a nice place to drink said coffee and eat said bagels.

 

“-- so, she comes up to me, like she just barges into my room, screaming, and is like, you literally do nothing for this family, blah blah, your room isn’t clean, you don’t do the dishes, shit like that. And it’s like, I’m sorry, Mom, but I didn’t ASK to be born --”

 

Eponine half listens to Claire Davis talk about her family problems. She relates to an extent, although, this morning, Eponine had woken up to one of her fathers friends with his lips on her neck trying to take her shirt off so her family might be a little more fucked up. Not that having a horribly family is a competition, but if it was, Eponine would win.

 

The rest of the day passes as normal. At the end of lunch, as she and Grantaire get up to leave, she gets dress-coded.

 

She bends down to pick up a piece of fallen trash and when she gets back up a teacher is beckoning to her. It’s Mr. Walker. He teaches U.S. History, he’s old, he’s white, and in Eponine’s opinion, gross. She and Grantaire approach him.

 

“Miss Thenardier, did your parents let you leave the house dressed as you are?” Walker asks.

 

Eponine laughs out loud. First of all, she’s wearing a skirt that passes her fingertips which means it surpasses the “appropriate” length -- she checked the handbook after this happened for the first time. Second of all, the fact that her parents would actually give a shit about her enough to care what she wears to school is frankly the best joke she’s heard all year.

 

Eponine rolls her eyes. She has infinite respect for teachers, really, she does, but she doesn’t have any for pervy old white guys who vote conservative and probably think Donald Trump is just what we need to make America great again.

 

“Mr. Walker, my skirt passes my fingertips,” she put her arms at her sides to prove it, “So I really don’t think you’re at liberty to comment on what I’m wearing.” Maybe on a better day when she wasn’t so damn tired she would have given him a speech on why dress codes are sexist and perpetuate misogyny in the educational system and shame girls for their bodies while simultaneously marking the value of a girl’s education as less than a boy’s. But she’s just so tired. All she wants to do is get away from this conversation without a detention.

 

“Fingertips or not, entirely too much of your legs are exposed. How do you expect to be taken seriously by any of the male teachers in this school wearing that? This is a place of learning, not a night club.”

 

Eponine’s jaw literally drops to the floor. A feminist rant is inevitable at this point.

 

“Okay, first of all, you’re disgusting. My legs are not inherently sexual and I’m sorry that you find them that to be, but it’s not my fucking problem. I shouldn’t have to cover up just because you’re uncomfortable,” she says. Mr. Walker looks livid but Eponine does not give a single fuck.

 

“Second of all, I should be taken seriously because I’m a fucking person, dude, a human being with thoughts and opinions who is here, at school, to learn. The fact that my legs are showing is no determining factor as to whether or not I should be denied the human right to be listened to.” By now, Eponine has drawn a crowd.

 

“Third of all, this might sound wild to you, but girls are actually capable of learning while still looking good and dressing the way they want at the same time! And guess what, boys are capable of learning in the presence of exposed human legs and most of them have enough self control to not ejaculate on the spot. It’s a crazy concept, I know.”

 

She gets detention. It’s worth it.

 

By the time fifth period rolls around Eponine is still pissed. It doesn’t help that 90% of the people in the school are still stuck in the 1940s when it comes to their opinions on feminism. Two of her teachers have taken her aside and told her not only that her skirt is, in fact, too short and if she hadn’t already gotten detention they would give her one, but also that they were disappointed in her “blatant disrespect for authority”. Not only that, but her detention was today after school, so she’d have to tell Combeferre that she couldn’t come to tutoring. Not that she had been looking forward to it, but she was ready to finally begin not sucking at math.

 

He’s already in the room when she walks in. He’s sitting on a desk talking to his friends. Not all of the ABC Society is in AP Calc fifth period -- just Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Cosette. She doesn’t have a problem with any of them; in fact, they’re all scary nice. Except for maybe Enjolras but Eponine just thinks the kid is bad with people.

 

Courfeyrac’s seat is next to Eponine’s and he always tilts his paper towards her desk when they take tests, so she likes him. He’s always happy (seriously, how is a teenager is that fucking happy all the damn time) and says funny things under his breath that Mr. Hayes doesn’t hear. Cosette used to be Eponine’s neighbor when they were kids until she and her stepfather moved to a nicer part of town. Eponine, as much as she tries, cannot find it within herself to dislike her -- she is the human embodiment of the sun. And Enjolras is Enjolras. Grantaire is smitten and Eponine can see why -- he’s beautiful (and Eponine does not use the term lightly) and impassioned -- but a little too intense. Combeferre is, begrudgingly, Eponine’s favorite. Tall with dark curly hair, glasses, and grandpa sweaters, he gives off the attractive hipster nerd vibe but manages not to be intimidating with his looks. Not that many people intimidate Eponine, anyway.

 

She walks up to their group.

 

“Eponine, hi!” Cosette says with what seems like genuine excitement, “I’m so glad you’re here, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I was there today, at lunch, when you went off on Walker. I literally cried tears of joy. It was so beautiful. It’s about time someone called the administration out on their shit and you did it so perfectly.”

 

Eponine is stunned, but not really. It makes sense that a member of the social justice club would be into feminism. Although, her respect for Cosette did just level up.

 

Courfeyrac chimes in, “Dude, it was impressive. After Walker took you out of the cafeteria everyone started clapping. Even the conservatives, but I think that’s because they just like drama. But still, it was super cool.”

 

Eponine doesn’t really know what to say. They’re all so damn nice. She laughs. “Thanks, I guess. I just get so tired of this school sometimes. Like, it’s 2015. Times are changing. Women have legs, you know?”

 

They all laugh and murmur sounds of agreement. Before another one of them can chime in about the injustices of the world she taps Combeferre on the arm.

 

“Uh,  Combeferre, I actually need to talk to you,” she says, pulling him over so they’re not surrounded by his friends. She doesn’t exactly want the perfect and effortlessly intelligent social justice kids knowing she’s getting tutored in what’s probably a walk in the park for them.

 

“So, Walker gave me detention. And it’s after school today. I know this is our first session, but it’s not like I can really get out of this…” she trails off.

 

“Walker’s an idiot,” he laughs, “And what you did was really cool. If the system is wrong, people can’t be afraid to call it out, you know? Or else how will we progress? And don’t worry about the detention, okay? I can still tutor you, if you want. I’ll just get detention too and we can work on stuff in there.”

 

Eponine can’t help but laugh. “Have you ever gotten detention in your life? How do you plan on getting one?”

 

Mr. Hayes walks through the door, catching their attention. Combeferre just smiles.

 

“Mr. Hayes, could I have detention after school today?” he asks. Is he fucking serious?

 

Eponine is giggling openly but stops abruptly when Mr. Hayes’ bored reply is, “Sure, Combeferre. The forms are on my desk. Fill one out and I’ll sign it.”

 

“See you in detention, Eponine,” Combeferre laughs and touches her arm, kind of. It may have been on purpose or it may have been an accident but the sensation is different. After much deliberation Eponine tells herself she doesn’t like it.

 

Soon enough she’s saying goodbye to Grantaire and walking up the stairs to the room where detention is held. She runs into Combeferre on the stairs.

 

“Ready for some Calculus?” he asks, laughing. She glares at him.

 

There is one other kid in the room -- a sophomore who Eponine thinks is named Jackson. He doesn’t seem too happy that there are two people talking about Calculus in detention, effectively keeping him from sleeping but he doesn’t say anything. Eponine thinks he’s scared of her.

 

Half an hour later Eponine has learned integration by parts. Combeferre is kind of a genius. It’s not only that he knows the material inside and out, but that he knows how to teach it in a way that caters directly to Eponine. He gives her the time she needs and answers her questions thoroughly.

 

They still have half an hour left in detention but the next topic they have to cover will take a lot longer than that, according to Combeferre, so it’s better to wait until Wednesday.

 

They both decide to read. Eponine’s already read Jane Eyre three times, though, and it’s the only book she has with her.

 

After a few minutes, she’s tired of rereading, even if it is a book she loves. “What are you reading?” she asks.

 

“One Hundred Years of Solitude,” he replies, “by, uh, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” Eponine thinks it sounds pretentious.

 

“What’s it about?” she asks.

 

“Well, I’m reading it for Spanish. It’s in Spanish,” he laughs, “It’s magical realism, which is cool. There’s a lot of incest and magic and sex with animals and it’s supposed to be really meaningful and symbolic but honestly I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s a classic, so I guess I should like it. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. But I have this theory that half of the books widely considered to be “classics” actually suck and people are just kidding themselves when they talk about how great they are. It’s like wine. Does anybody actually like wine? Or do they just drink it to be pretentious and fit in with the other pretentious wine drinkers who are also kidding themselves?”

 

So, Combeferre is not pretentious. And he’s funny. Two common misconceptions about Combeferre were just disproved in one statement. Eponine had just sort of assumed he was pretentious because he takes Philosophy class and reads textbooks for fun. She had assumed he was boring for the same reasons.

 

She laughs, “Dude, I’ve been saying that since forever. Same goes with superhero movies. Like, who are they kidding? I literally fell asleep during the last Avengers movie. I feel like the whole superhero movie concept is one big joke on me and when I die everybody will laugh and stop pretending that they’re good.”

 

“Oh my God, no, I’m totally with you. Everyone is so far up Marvel’s ass and I have no idea why. And they can make a fucking Ant-Man movie like it’s no skin off their nose but they still say there’s no market for a Black Widow movie? She’s the only one in the whole Avengers franchise that is mildly interesting.”

 

“Yeah, definitely. And I’m sure all the whiny comic book fedora neckbeards would hate it, which is why I’m totally here for it,” she says.

 

“I’m glad there’s finally someone who agrees with me on superhero movies. I might need to show you to Joly and Courfeyrac because they think I’m crazy and that I’m the only one who has these opinions. You should come to the next ABC meeting. I promise it’s not as boring as you probably think it is. We don’t just sit and politely discuss the wage gap while Enjolras sits in the front of the room and holds a gavel,” he says.

 

That’s exactly what Eponine thought they did.

 

“When is it?” she finds herself asking.

 

“Every Wednesday after school. Room 209,” he says.

 

“Ah, no. I have to work,” she says. She’s surprised that she finds herself a little, really tiny bit disappointed. Just a really really little tiny bit.

 

“Shit, right. I knew that, I’m sorry,” he says. She hopes he’s a little tiny bit disappointed too.

 

“Well, um, my boss is kind of good with shifting hours around and stuff. So I might be able to switch my Wednesday shift to Thursday or something if I kiss ass,” she laughs.

 

His eyes brighten (Eponine can’t tell if he’s just being his usual nice Combeferre self or if she’s reading too much into it) and he says, “Dude, yes! I mean if it’s cool with your boss, obviously. Where do you work?”

 

“The, uh, Musain. That coffee shop, it’s like, a few streets over, I don’t know if you’ve been there, or seen it --”

 

“Yeah I have! I love it there. How long have you been working there? Because I definitely would have noticed if you were there. I’m usually there all the time,” he says.

 

“Yeah, I just kind of got the job a few weeks ago. I see your friends a lot in there. Enjolras brings his gavel.”

 

“Does he really? I’ve told him to stop doing that. It makes us look less like Juniors in highschool and more like some weird cult. Plus, the whole point is that we all hold the gavel, metaphorically of course, because we’re a democracy. I have to talk to him.”

 

“Combeferre, I was joking.”

 

He laughs too loudly, earning him a look from Jackson the Sophomore. They had forgotten he was in there. “See, I believed you because that’s totally something he would do.”

 

“Even without the gavels, you’re kind of a weird cult. But like, in a good way.”

 

“I’m all too aware. But honestly, I’m glad I found them. In a school like this, finding a dozen people who aren’t voting for Donald Trump is a blessing, let alone a dozen people who you can actually form real emotional ties with.”

 

She smiles ruefully. She was more than content with Grantaire as her best and only close friend, she really was. But listening to Combeferre talk about having a group of friends that’s more like a family makes her feel more emotions than she’s equipped to deal with. She didn’t even have a real family to go home to, let alone a surrogate one.

 

Mr. Taylor comes back in the room, shoots Eponine a dirty look, smiles at Combeferre, and tells the three of them that they’re free to go. Before leaving, he gives Eponine another dirty look. The teachers probably have her picture on a dartboard in the teacher’s lounge.

 

“Thanks a lot for doing this, Combeferre. I know it probably isn’t fun tutoring the dumb kids, but I really understood what we worked on today. So thank you. And I’ll, um, talk to my boss about the schedule thing,” she says awkwardly.

 

“You’re not dumb,” he laughs, “Trust me. The school system is fucked. It caters to a certain brand of student and if you don’t fit that mold, you’re apparently dumb. But if they’d actually take the time to learn how to teach the students, they’d see they’re capable of a lot more than they give them credit for. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I hope your boss says yes.”

 

They’re outside the school now.

 

“See you tomorrow,” she says, turning to walk away.

 

“Wait, do you have a ride?” he asks. Eponine groans. She hates when people point out the fact that she doesn’t have a car.

 

“Nah. I can walk, though, seriously. It’s not too far and I like walking and stuff.”

 

“It’s cold as shit. And what’s the point of having a car if I can’t drive people around? Plus, it’s not too far and I like driving and stuff,” he smiles.

 

“We basically just met today. I don’t even know if you’re a good driver.”

 

“Every minute you spend arguing out here in the cold is a minute you’re not spending in my heated car.”

 

Eponine hesitates. She doesn’t really like people knowing where she lives. And there’s always the risk that one or many of her family members or family friends will be outside.

 

“It’s really not that cold.”

 

“It really is.”

 

“You know, I don’t appreciate the fact that you’re not letting me make my own decisions.”

 

“Last chance.”

 

“Fine. Let’s go. Don’t make me change my mind.”

 

Combeferre’s car is warm and has comfortable seats and is moderately nice considering the fact it belongs to a 17 year old.

 

“Are you rich?” she asks bluntly. She assumes every member of the social justice squad is loaded.

 

“God, no,” he laughs, “One of my mom’s old boyfriends worked at a used car dealership and got me this for cheap. That was about three boyfriends ago. Her current one is a psychiatrist. So instead of cars I get a lot of attempted heart to hearts and a prescription for Zoloft that I didn’t ask for.”

 

So Combeferre didn’t come from the white picket fence, two parent family Eponine had imagined. Interesting. She can relate to having strange men come into her house.

 

“Yikes,” she says, “do you have any siblings? Oh, and turn left here.”

 

“Yeah, sisters. One is 20, her name is Anna, she lives in California. She had a fight with my mom a few years ago and we haven’t seen her since. I talk to her on the phone sometimes, but I know she and my mom haven’t said a word to each other. My half sister is 8. Her dad left about 5 or 6 boyfriends ago. I think he was an actor, or wanted to be an actor, at least. I barely remember him. He didn’t last too long after he found out my mom was pregnant. But Nina, that’s her name, is a great kid. Really sweet most of the time but has an evil streak. But anyways, I digress. I always talk for too long and bore people. What about you? Any siblings?”

 

“Yeah, two, actually. Both younger. Azelma is 14 and Gavroche is 12. He’s a good kid. I know what you mean about the evil streak, because he totally has one. And Azelma doesn’t go to our school, or uh, live with my family for that matter. Um, turn right here. But yeah, she’s like, in foster care. It’s a weird situation.” Eponine doesn’t like divulging too much of her personal life with people she practically just met. Grantaire doesn’t even know much more than what she just said. Combeferre knows enough not to question her.

 

“Anyways. This is my house, on the left here. Thanks for the ride, dude, and the tutoring,” Eponine says, almost jumping out of the car.

 

“It’s really no problem. Do you need a ride to school tomorrow?” he asks.

 

“No, that’s okay, Grantaire always picks me up. Thank you though! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“See you tomorrow, Eponine.”

 

Eponine doesn’t do emotions. Not usually. She feels happy, sometimes, when she’s with Grantaire, or when she’s reading. She feels sad, a lot, when she’s at home. And she feels angry, a lot, everywhere. But that’s the general extent of her emotional range. Happy, sad, angry. Never has she felt this before. She doesn’t even know where to put it on the spectrum. She’ll deal with it later.   

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, so i updated pretty fast. don't expect that regularly because school just started and i have college apps and shit. i'm a mess. i hope you enjoy. thank you everyone who gave me kudos and commented and bookmarked :')

It’s Wednesday and she’s meeting Combeferre at school an hour early. What an awful idea. To make matters worse, she has to get Montparnasse to drive her to school because Grantaire’s shitty station wagon finally realized that it’s a shitty station wagon and crapped out. So here she is, it’s 6:45 AM and she’s shivering in the front seat of Montparnasse’s (probably stolen) car. Montparnasse is a weird dude. Eponine is not convinced he’s truly evil, just weird. She likes him better than she likes her family, anyway.

 

“Remind me why I’m driving you to your high school at the literal ass crack of dawn,” Montparnasse yawns. He graduated last year and suddenly acts as if he’s a responsible, tax-paying, law-abiding adult driving his daughter to school.

 

“I have tutoring.”

 

“What subject?”

 

“Math.”

 

“I know math.”

 

“You never took Calc.”

 

“Yes I did.”

 

“No you didn’t.”

 

“Who’s tutoring you anyway?”

 

“You don’t know him.”

 

“So it’s a guy?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is he your boyfriend?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What the fuck, Eponine?”

 

“You know you and I aren’t a thing, right ‘Parnasse? I think I’ve made that clear.”

 

“Yeah, I know. We could be, though.”

 

“I don’t think so. But for the record, Combeferre is not my boyfriend.”

 

“He sounds dumb.”

 

“He’s not. I don’t think he’d be tutoring me in Calculus if he was.”

 

Eponine and Montparnasse have a strange relationship. They’ve been close since they were very young, since she was four and he was seven. They had dated Eponine’s Freshman year and some of her Sophomore year but had realized, eventually, that they were toxic for each other. They remained close, always shoved together due to circumstances outside of Eponine’s control (namely her family). They’re friends now, and they still know each other better than anyone. But they also know the damage they do to each other. Montparnasse, Eponine knows, is not an altogether bad guy.

 

They pull up in front of the school.

 

“Ah. It seems like just yesterday I, too, was a slave to this desolate brick penitentiary. Have fun with _Combeferre_ , ‘Ponine.” He pecks her on the lips and she leaves the car. Eponine doesn’t think anything of the kiss. They did it before they dated, they did it while they dated, and they do it after they dated.

 

“I will. Bye, thanks for the ride.”

 

Combeferre is waiting outside of the school. Eponine wonders why, seeing as it’s cold enough for her to see her breath.

 

“Hi,” she calls out, “Aren’t you cold?”

 

“I’ve only been out here for a few minutes, I was waiting to tell you that the school is locked. I told Ms. Powell to keep the door open today but she definitely did not do that,” he says. His cheeks are pink.

 

“Yikes,” she says, “What do we do?”

 

“We could sit in my car, I guess,” he offers, “but then we couldn’t study. We could to go the Musain, actually. It’s warm and there’s tables and coffee.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Combeferre’s car is the same as it was on Monday, except it smells faintly like gingerbread cookies or some other comforting shit that Eponine soaks in like a sponge. She notices the air freshener that wasn’t there last time.

 

They study for 45 minutes, and Eponine learns another section of her Calculus textbook that she hadn’t understood before. She also learns that Combeferre is a baby when it comes to coffee and she loves it. He orders a caramel latte with whipped cream. She laughs at him. He loves that.

 

When the time comes to exit Combeferre’s warm gingerbread haven and face the cold barren wasteland that is the school parking lot, neither of them is prepared to leave.

 

“I kind of want to stay in your car all day and not go in,” she says.

 

“I kind of want to let you,” he groans, “but I have a Physics test first period.”

 

She glares at him. “I’m not used to hanging out with responsible people.”

 

“Come on. If we run then we won’t feel the cold.”

 

No one expected Eponine Thenardier to come running into the school at full speed and certainly no one expected Combeferre to be with her.

 

She had talked to her boss the previous day and had been able to switch her Wednesday shift to Thursday. Which means that today, after school, she’s going to an ABC meeting. Who was she? Eponine does not join school social justice clubs. She tells herself she’s not joining, she’s just scoping the place out.

 

At lunch, she and Grantaire sit down at their usual table.

 

“I’m just saying, mind control is obviously the best superpower. Imagine it. That apple you’re eating. I want it. But you don’t want to give it to me. If I had mind control, that apple would be mine,” Grantaire argues.

 

“But I don’t want you to have my apple. I’m literally eating it,” she says.

 

“Okay, different example. Some old flabby teacher says your skirt is too short. That sucks, but oh wait, you’ve got mind control. He no longer thinks your skirt is inappropriate and he suddenly feels the urge to quit his job as a teacher and spend the rest of his days preaching feminism to anyone who will listen.”

 

“Okay, interesting point, but have you considered shapeshifting?” Eponine asks, “Like, you could get anything. You want free healthcare for everyone in the country? You shapeshift into the president and pass some legislation and boom, free healthcare.”

 

“With mind control you could make the real president want to give the country free healthcare,” Grantaire says.

 

“But how are you going to get close enough to the president to take over his mind? He’s under constant supervision,” she says.

 

“Well what are you going to do when you shapeshift into the president and walk into the oval office and the real president’s already there?” he asks.

 

Eponine is spared from answering when Cosette comes over to their table.

 

“Hi Eponine!” she waves to Grantaire who gives a half hearted salute back, “Combeferre told me you were coming today! I’m pumped. It’s gonna be great. I’m so glad you’re coming!” she says.

 

“Thanks, Cosette. It, uh, should be interesting,” Eponine replies.

 

“Well, I have a paper I should be finishing. I just wanted to come say that this is awesome! See you guys!” she says, literally floating away.

 

“Did Cosette Fauchelevent just come up to you and express her excitement over your attendance of the save the world club meeting?” Grantaire asks.

 

“Um, yeah. I was going to ask you. Do you want to come with? Combeferre invited me. He’s not totally lame like you’d expect him to be. I just kind of want to see what goes on, you know. Might be fun. Or not. I don’t know.”

 

“Oh, God, Ep. You know who runs those meetings. Plus, they’re deluded. They really do think they can change the world. They really think a group of ten high schoolers can put an end to all the social inequities in America.”

 

“You’re going to have to properly interact with him one day. And I guess it’s not bad to have like, a productive hobby, even if it won’t do any good in the long run. It’s better than getting trashed in your room listening to Neutral Milk Hotel like we would normally. That’s getting sad.”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Please?”

 

“No.”

 

“Please?”

 

“Fine.”

 

And soon enough Eponine and Grantaire are at the door of room 209. Eponine, who was an adamant advocate for attending the ABC meeting is rapidly losing momentum.

 

“We should probably go in,” Grantaire says.

 

“Yeah. Or not. We could just go to your house and get trashed. We could listen to something other than Neutral Milk Hotel,” she replies.

 

He’s weighing the options, but the decision is made for them when Feuilly, a kid from Eponine and Grantaire’s Art class, comes to the door. He smells like cigarettes and his gray shirt is covered in tiny paint splatters.

 

“Hey guys. Are you going to the meeting?” he asks. Feuilly is a cool guy. He has long hair that he puts in a bun most of the time and he’s one of the members of the ABC who isn’t apparently filthy rich. Eponine remembers him from World History last year. He had been asleep 50% of the time but when he was awake he would talk about Poland and ramble on and on about various wars that Eponine can’t remember the name of. She decides she likes him.

 

“Uh, yeah. Well, we weren’t sure if we should just, like, barge in, or uh, knock, or what,” Eponine says.

 

Feuilly laughs, “Just go in. They’re not that bad. Enjolras seems scary but he’s really a cinnamon roll.” He opens the door for them and they walk in.

 

The atmosphere of room 209 is one completely different from the atmosphere of the rest of the school. There are a decent amount of people, which is surprising, considering the political and social climate of the school, and Eponine is fairly impressed.

 

Musichetta is there with her friends (boyfriends? Eponine isn’t quite sure if they’re doing the whole polyamorous thing or if they’re all just really close) Joly and Bossuet. Musichetta and Bossuet are in Eponine’s English class, and when the teacher tells them to get into groups of three, Musichetta always asks Eponine to be in theirs. So she likes them. Joly is kind of a mystery, although she does know that he’s really smart which would explain why they’re not in any of the same classes. She also is pretty sure he has a prosthetic leg, which is super cool. Maybe if she keeps coming to these meetings he’ll let her see it.

 

She’s surprised to see Bahorel here. She actually knows Bahorel pretty well. Or well enough. They have French together and were put together for a project once and have been on friendly terms ever since. He’s always good for a laugh. More than once he’s joined her and Grantaire to smoke behind the Art building, which is surprising seeing as he’s on the wrestling team and usually sports kids are super straight edge. She likes him, though.

 

And then there’s Jean (Jehan? she doesn’t know why people call him that but they do) Prouvaire, who’s in Eponine’s Econ class. He’s very sweet. Long hair, big sweaters, weird patterned pants, always carries a book full of poems. Eponine admires him for being himself at a school like this. He doesn’t seem to notice anyone around him, though, other than his friends, which is probably for the best.

 

The last new face is Marius Pontmercy. A puppy with a ridiculous amount of freckles who is probably only here because Cosette is. If she’s being honest, she spent half of Sophomore year drooling over him from the back of their Chemistry class. It was right after she and Montparnasse had broken up, and she latched on to the first person who was as Anti-Montparnasse as possible. But she’s over him now. Eponine has decided that crushes are stupid.

 

Combeferre spots her from where he’s standing with Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

 

“Eponine, Grantaire, hi!” he says, approaching them. Eponine offers a small smile. Although she knows everyone in the room to be considerably friendly, she feels incredibly small. They’re all so passionate and dedicated to saving the world or whatever.

 

The meeting isn’t bad. Everyone goes around in a circle and shares a cause that’s important to them, and at the end everyone votes on the topic they want to focus on for the rest of the month. Enjolras does not have a gavel.

 

One good thing that comes out of the meeting, Eponine finds, is that Musichetta is awesome.

 

“Hey,” she whispers to Eponine while Courfeyrac is talking, “I saw you call Walker out at lunch on Monday. You’re my fucking hero. Also, where did you get your skirt? I’ve been looking for one like it for like, years.”

 

Eponine has always been impressed with Musichetta. She’s slightly smaller than Eponine, maybe 5’2 or 5’3, but she’s seen her put many a guy in his place. Not to mention she’s beautiful, like totally awe-inspiring. She has wild curly hair and brown skin and some freckles are visible on her nose; she’s a goddess, really.

 

“Thanks,” Eponine laughs, “And I got it at Goodwill, unfortunately, so I’m not exactly sure--”

 

“Oh my God, this is a blessed day. Lets go thrifting. None of the losers I hang out with,” she gestures around the room, “ever want to go with me.”

 

“Yeah, uh, okay. Honestly most of my clothes are from thrift stores. I love them. When works for you?” she asks. Musichetta is nice. And it might be good for her to have a friend who’s a girl. Not that Grantaire isn’t great, but he won’t sit at Goodwill with her while she tries on mom jeans.

 

“I’m free Friday, would that work?”

 

“Uh, I work until five on Friday.”

 

“That’s fine! I can pick you up after that, if you want. You work at the Musain right?”

 

“Yeah, I do. Okay, awesome.”

 

Eponine doesn’t talk to Combeferre for the rest of the week. She does, however, talk to Musichetta and Bossuet in English and Jehan sits next to her in Econ and Feuilly joins her and Grantaire at their table in Art. It was different, actually talking and laughing with people in her classes rather than scowling and sleeping the whole time. She was not sure how she felt about it.

 

Her shift at the Musain drags on slowly. Making coffee for wannabe hipster after wannabe hipster gets old. Her wish for something to break the monotony is granted when the door opens and a group of high school students spill in. Among them is Musichetta, Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Combeferre.

 

Bahorel gives her a high five. It’s a thing he does.

 

“Hey Eponine!” Musichetta says, “We’re still on for five, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Eponine laughs, “Can I get you guys anything?”

 

They order and sit down. The place is nearly empty and Eponine is tempted to go out back for a cigarette when Bahorel calls her name.

 

“Eponine, come sit with us!” he yells.

 

“Dude, I’m literally on the clock.”

 

“There’s no one in here!”

 

“What if someone comes in?”

 

“Then you get up and take their order.”

 

“What if my boss comes in and sees me sitting down?”

 

“Then we take all the blame,” Combeferre says, “We give you free reign to say we physically dragged you out from behind the counter or something.”

 

“Fine,” she says, looking around. She doesn’t think she would have said no in the first place. These socially aware nerds are going to kill her.

 

She sits at the end of a couch next to Bahorel, who gives her another high five.

 

“So we need you to settle an argument,” Joly says, “Wait, you’ve read Harry Potter, right?”

 

Eponine is affronted. Of course she has.

 

“Of course I have,” she says.

 

“Okay, just checking. Who do you think would win in a fight: Grawp, or the giant squid?”

 

She ponders the question. “Grawp. Obviously. I mean it’s been basically proven that the giant squid isn’t hostile -- it pulled out that kid who fell into the lake, right? He’s like, a gentle giant. Squid. And like, Grawp isn’t hostile either, don’t get me wrong. But he can do a lot of damage without realizing it. So, yeah. Grawp,” she says.

 

Feuilly and Combeferre yell in glee while Bahorel, Musichetta, and Joly groan.

 

“Dude, the giant squid is GIANT. He could roll on top of Grawp on accident and he’d get crushed and the squid probably wouldn’t even realize it,” Bahorel says.

 

“Okay, yeah, but the giant squid couldn’t roll on top of him in the first place. He’s limited to the lake,” Combeferre says.

 

“That means they’d be fighting on his home turf, though! The squid probably knows all the hiding places and could get the grindylows and shit to help him,” Joly says.

 

“But that wouldn’t be fair! It’s the giant squid against Grawp, not the giant squid and his army of grindylows against Grawp,” Feuilly says.

 

“Plus, I think his size would be a disadvantage. Like, Grawp could dart around him and systematically take out each of his tentacles or something. Then he’d just be a giant useless squid head,” Eponine adds.

 

Musichetta opens her mouth to give a rebuttal but is interrupted when the door to the back room opens and Eponine’s manager walks out. The owner is a nice old lady named Mrs. Hucheloup who’s flexible with hours and lets Eponine take free drinks. Her shift manager, however, is a twenty-something named Josh who thinks he’s hot shit because he’s a shift manager at a coffee shop. Eponine hates Josh.

 

She gets up quickly.

 

“Whoa, Eponine, what were you doing there?” Josh asks, “You know you have to stay behind the counter at all times.”

 

“Sorry, Josh,” she says dully. She gets off in like, ten minutes. She doesn’t want to deal with shit from Josh, of all people.

 

Combeferre says, “Yeah, my bad. We asked her to come sit.”

 

“Yeah, it’s really not her fault,” Feuilly adds.

 

Josh narrows his eyes. “She should know better,” he says and turns to Eponine, “Your shift is over, Eponine. See you tomorrow, bright and early.” Fuck Josh.

 

Musichetta is fun to shop with, Eponine soon discovers. She gives good advice and picks out things that she thinks would suit Eponine. It’s different having someone to go shopping with. She never had a real mother to take her shopping; ever since elementary school her mother would drop her off at Goodwill with $20 if she was lucky.

 

She’s happier than she has been in a long time when Musichetta drops her off and even when she walks into her house. Kicking a pile of dirty laundry out of the way, she makes her way upstairs to the room she shares with Gavroche, humming slightly. Gavroche is on his bed playing a pink Nintendo DS of suspicious origins. Eponine does not know where he got it, nor does she ask. At least he doesn’t care about gender roles. She pulls an earbud out of his ear.

 

“Hey, Gav. How was your day?” she asks.

 

“It was okay,” he answers, suspicious of Eponine’s good mood, “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Can’t I ask you how your day is?” she laughs.

 

“I guess you can,” he shrugs, “If you want to stay in that good mood, though, I’d stay away from dad if I were you. He’s on the warpath. I came home from school and he clocked me just for looking at him.”

 

It was true. Eponine had not noticed in her current state of happiness, but there on Gavroche’s jaw was a red mark that would surely be a bruise by tomorrow.

 

“What the fuck is his problem?” she asks, her good mood evaporating.

 

“I don’t know, ‘Ponine. I would stay out of his way, though.”

 

Eponine will talk to him later, without a doubt, but for now she does what Gav wants. He seems to make light of everything thrown his way, but Eponine can’t tell if he really truly just doesn’t give a shit, or if he actually is affected and is pretending for Eponine’s sake. He’s a tough kid, but she can’t believe he’s not affected, at least a little bit, by their parents’ abuse.

 

Eponine manages to finish all of her homework, even Calc, with little difficulty, before she realizes she’s hungry.

 

“Do you want dinner, Gav?”

 

“I guess. Do we have any candy?”

 

“I’ll check,” she says, leaving the room and descending the stairs.

 

She manages to find a bag of chips, a jar of pickles, and even some Swedish Fish for Gavroche. Better than usual.

 

Suddenly, the back door opens, revealing Eponine’s father. Someone smarter probably would have taken the food upstairs, avoiding confrontation altogether, but Eponine was not smart. She did need tutoring, after all.

 

“Hey, what the fuck, dude? You can’t just do that to your son when you’re in a bad mood. Gavroche has done nothing. He’s fucking twelve,” she says.

 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, ‘Ponine,” he says, obviously drunk, “Just get out of my sight.”

 

Needless to say, Eponine does not get out of his sight. And now she has a black eye and her lip is bleeding and her ribs might be bruised but she’s okay because it’s better her than Gav.

 

Eponine comes into work late the next morning. Josh, asshole that he is, can’t even bring himself to reprimand her. He is far too used to Eponine coming into work with a wide array of injuries, and thankfully, he doesn’t ask what happened. The skin under her left eye is various shades of dark purple and yellow, and thank God, that’s the worst of it. There is some bruising on the side of her face, but it’s mild in comparison.

 

In between the steady stream of customers she does some serious thinking. She should have known that the happiness that the Save The World Squad gave her wouldn’t last. She doesn’t fit in with them, anyway. She and Grantaire, fucked up as they are, deserve each other. Well, maybe not even that. Grantaire is a sweet, funny, albeit kind of crazy, kid. He deserves happiness. He deserves to date Enjolras and become a part of his group of friends. She decides to not go to another one of their meetings.

 

She still needs tutoring, though. She won’t quit just yet, she tells herself, she just won’t let herself enjoy Combeferre’s presence. Easy enough. Except for the fact that she actually, really, really enjoys Combeferre’s presence. He’s different than anyone she’s ever met and it’s weird and she doesn’t know how to describe it. She remembers the reverence with which he described his friends on the first day he tutored her. It stings a little bit that she’s not included, that she’ll never not just be a girl he tutors twice a week. She definitely doesn’t want another Marius situation, where she goes crazy for the first guy who is nice to her. She decides to distance herself from Combeferre. She can do that.

 

The bell on the door jingles and Eponine looks up. Combeferre walks in. Shit.

 

“Hey, Eponine! I was hoping you’d be here --” he begins. She turns her head to face him and his eyes widen.

 

“Whoa, are you alright? What happened?” he asks. Eponine is stupid. He doesn’t care, obviously. This would be anyone’s reaction to seeing someone with a black eye.

 

“Nothing. I’m just really, really clumsy. I have bruises all the time if you haven’t noticed,” she forces a laugh, “Can I get you anything?

 

“Yeah, um, a caramel latte,” he blushes and it is NOT cute.  

 

“That’ll be $3.54.”

 

“So, what time do you get off?” he asks, handing her the money.

 

Its currently 4 PM. “Five.”

 

“Awesome. So, uh, Courfeyrac has a giant house and his parents are gone for the weekend so he’s having a bunch of people over and we thought you might want to come. Especially Musichetta, she basically forced me at gunpoint to come ask you. I would have texted, but I thought you might be at work. And I was right.”

 

Eponine freezes. It’s not like he can tell him she has work; she just told him when she got off. But she literally just promised herself five minutes ago that she would distance herself from them. She can’t cave that easily.

 

“I, um. I have to babysit my brother. Gavroche. I know he’s twelve and all but he really will burn the house down if no one’s there to watch him… I’m sorry.” That’s a lie. Gavroche is more equipped for life on his own than most college students.

 

“Oh, yeah, I get that. Maybe next time? Courfeyrac’s parents are literally never home. And everyone really likes having you around. Bahorel thinks you’re hilarious. Well, I’m sure they all do. It’s just that Bahorel won’t shut up about it.”

 

“Yeah,” she laughs nervously, “next time. See you at school.”

 

“Okay! We’re still on for tutoring, right?”

 

“Um, yeah, I’ll tell you if anything changes.”

 

“Okay, thanks. See you, Eponine. Oh, and you should put some ice on your eye.”

  
She doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING <3 please give feedback!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI so sorry it's been kind of a while. my life is a shit show and I'm procrastinating homework currently but I wanted to write this instead because i'm literal trash. speaking of which, this chapter is unedited and probably really sucks. i'm so sorry. i hope you enjoy this garbage regardless. please give me your feedback! it means a lot

Outside of tutoring, Eponine doesn’t talk to Combeferre for three weeks. She wakes up, Grantaire drives her to school (his station wagon is working again - for now), suffers through classes, spends fifth period staring determinedly at the teacher (never at He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named), goes to work (hides in the back room as much as she can when the social justice squad comes in), and goes home.

 

Life in the Thenardier household is what one would expect. Her parents don’t actively seek her out when she’s at home, which is a blessing, but aren’t afraid to chastise her when she’s in their way. Or when she’s not. She spends most of her time at home with Gavroche in their room, doing homework and listening to music.

 

The "not talking" streak is broken on the Friday of the third week. Her black eye has since healed, but the new patch of bruises that adorns her collarbone is not invisible. Alone, Combeferre walks into the Musain and spots Eponine. She cringes. This means she can’t escape into the backroom or duck behind the counter.

 

“Hey,” she grimaces, “Can I get you anything?”

 

“Uh, no, actually, I --”

 

“Ah, sorry, but I’m not really allowed to like, let you stay unless you buy something. Josh’s rules, not mine.”

 

“Oh God, yeah, of course, sorry. Can I just have a small black coffee, then?”

 

She grabs a cup and writes his name, “That’s $2.30.”

 

“Um, so I don’t really know if I’m overstepping my boundaries here,” he begins, handing her the money, “and you really don’t have to answer this, but have I, uh, done something to upset you? I just was wondering, because you haven’t been to any ABC meetings, and I mean, like, that’s totally fine if it’s not your thing, I get that, it’s just everyone wants to know where you are, especially Musichetta, ‘cause she, like, adores you and she says you haven’t been responding to her texts, and even Grantaire has been coming to meetings, and you haven’t been talking to me about anything other than tutoring, which is totally fine because you definitely don’t have to, but I was just wondering if maybe something was, um, wrong.”

 

Eponine is strangely touched. Granted, for Eponine, being ‘touched’ means that somewhere deep inside she feels something slightly less than bitterness towards Combeferre. But it’s progress.

 

“Dude, don’t worry. You and your friends definitely haven’t done anything other than be really nice. I just have been, like, really busy with work and family stuff and school stuff. Did I tell you I got an A on the last Calc test? Thanks for that, by the way. I totally owe it all to you,” she says, laughing nervously.

 

“You barely even need it anymore, Eponine, I swear you’re basically the one tutoring me,” he says.

 

She hands him his coffee, hoping he’ll just leave and not invite her to an ABC club bonding slumber party or something. She’s not sure if she’ll be able to say no.

 

“Anyway, it’s a huge relief you don’t secretly hate us. Plus, now it’s not weird that I ask you if you want to come to Courfeyrac’s after your shift ends. I hate to say he’s having a party because that’s nauseatingly ‘teen movie-esque’ but he’s basically having a party. It’s cool if you’re not interested, you know, it’s probably not your cup of tea. But I figured it might be fun. And obviously you’re not obligated to hang out with me, or anything --”

 

Eponine says yes, but only to shut him up.

 

“My shift ends in, like, ten minutes. I have to go home and change but I’ll meet you there as soon as I can,” she says.

 

“Dude, no, I can drive you. Seriously, you can’t let my mom’s relationship with Cliff go to waste. I can see him now, rolling in his grave every time I don’t actually put the car he got for me to use,” he says. Eponine’s eyebrows raise.

 

“Oh, I made it sound like he’s dead, didn’t I. He’s not dead. I think he lives in, like, Wisconsin. Which, now that I think of it, is probably a fate worse than death. The point I was trying to make was that I’m pretty sure there’s a total of like, 20 miles on that thing and if I don’t drive you to this party it’ll probably just stop working from lack of use,” he says.

 

Eponine smiles, a smile that is almost wide enough to show her teeth, not the pained grimace from before. “I guess you can drive me. But I’m only doing it for Cliff.”

 

They walk out. Combeferre forgets his coffee.

 

His car is pleasantly warm and smells differently than it did the last time she was in it. She notices he changed the air freshener scent to something pumpkin-y. She convinces herself she doesn’t like it.

 

“So, is this ‘party’ a casual thing, or should I put on my sunday best and my grandmother’s pearls? This isn’t, like, a cocktail party is it?” she asks. Eponine doesn’t have grandparents, and if she did, she doubts her grandmother would have pearls.

 

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s black tie. Courfeyrac is a sixteen-year-old boy who likes to have cocktail parties when his parents are out of town,” Combeferre laughs, “No, but really. Wear whatever you want.”

 

They arrive at Eponine’s house too soon for her liking.

 

“Stay in the car. I won’t be long,” she says, running as fast as she can inside the house.

 

Although normally fairly confrontational, Eponine prays her parents aren’t home. This is the one moment in which she doesn’t want to pick a fight with them. She makes it to her room without seeing anyone. Hastily throwing on the first decent piece of clothing she sees, a basic gray cotton dress from her closet, she grabs her phone and looks at herself in the mirror. Her bruises are visible. She decides she doesn’t care. She’s almost to the front door when she runs into her father.

 

“Are you going out?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.”  
  


“Where are you going?”

 

“I just told you. Out.”

 

“Who are you going with? Montparnasse?”

 

“No.”

 

“Who then?”

 

“No one you’d know.” She darts around him, opening the door.

 

He pushes her into the doorframe. “Tell me where you’re going.”

 

Realizing that everything she does is visible to Combeferre, she decides to ignore her father. She runs to his car.

 

His yells are inaudible by the time she’s yanked open the door and flung herself into the passenger seat.

 

“Okay, sorry that might have taken too long. My dad’s a little, um, weird about parties. Doesn’t want me drinking and what not, you know, typical dad stuff. Just drive,” she says. She manages to keep very composed while inwardly combusting. Sweet cinnamon roll Combeferre has had a teeny tiny glimpse of what goes on in the Thenardier household. It’s obvious she’s lying, but he doesn’t say anything. If Eponine could see his eyes, though, she’d see the concern.

 

“Anyway. You don’t really strike me as a party kind of guy. You know drinking kills brain cells, right?” she asks.

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete dweeb. Not that staying sober makes you a dweeb or anything. But everyone seems to get this idea that I hate fun and everything that doesn’t have to do with like, science. I thought the stereotype that all people with glasses hate social interaction died, like, decades ago, but it still clings to life with a sickening vengeance.”

 

“I wasn’t saying you were a dweeb! You just seem to be the most sensible one out of your posse. The one who like, holds people’s hair back when they’re throwing up and tucks everyone in bed at four AM and turns them on their sides so they don’t choke on their own puke. That kind of stuff. I think it’s because you’re so tall. You kind of give off this vibe that you could like reach out your arms and engulf everyone. Like a hen or something,” she says.

 

“I’ll remember to hold your hair back tonight if things get too out of control,” he says.

 

Things get too out of control.

 

Eponine, at the beginning of the night, tells herself she’ll have three drinks, max. She knows what happens when she drinks (although that never does seem to deter her) and she knows that she doesn’t want to get sloppy drunk and embarrassing in front of the social justice squad.

 

There’s ‘Cynical Alcoholic Drunk Eponine’ and then there’s ‘Happy Teenage Girl Drunk Eponine’ and tonight she’s the latter. Courfeyrac keeps handing her drinks with fruit in them and Bahorel and Grantaire keep challenging her to drinking contests and Musichetta keeps asking her to do shots and she just can’t say no to Musichetta. Surprisingly, Joly, of all people, has done the most shots out of them all. It’s honestly impressive.

 

After what seems like the billionth shot, Eponine, vision blurred, decides she has to pee. In the bathroom she runs into Cosette and a girl with purple hair she knows by face but not by name.

 

“Hi Eponine!” Cosette giggles, “Do you want us to leave?”

 

Eponine is already peeing. “Nah, that’s okay,” she turns towards the other girl, “I like your hair.”

 

“Thank you sooo much! You know, I just dyed it, so I’m still kind of nervous about having purple hair and all but that is just so so sweet of you, wow. I love your dress. And your freckles. You’re just really cute, actually,” the girl says.

 

The only good things about getting really drunk at parties are the nice drunk girls you meet in the bathrooms. They’re always there and they’re always sweet.

 

Eponine stumbles out of the bathroom in search of anyone she knows. She, unfortunately, lost Combeferre a while ago when Musichetta dragged her off somewhere. Courfeyrac’s house is fucking huge and more difficult to navigate than the maze in the Triwizard Tournament and Eponine is lost. Wandering around, she runs into a familiar body after a few minutes.

 

“Hi ‘Parnasse,” she says slowly, trying not to slur her words, “What brings you here?”

 

“Generally I never pass up free alcohol. Plus parties like this are prime for selling,” he says, “Drunk rich kids are always willing to pay more for less. Does your dad know you’re here? I’m assuming not, or else he would’ve asked you to sell too.” Eponine’s good mood is gone. Again she’s reminded of her life at home, her parents selling drugs, Montparnasse selling drugs, her parents being assholes, everyone being assholes.

 

“Okay, dude. You go do your thing but I’m going to like, drink more drinks now,” she says. Her statement is not completely pathetic until she almost trips and Montparnasse has to steady her.

 

“You know where you’re going, ‘Ponine?” he asks.

 

“No. This house is a fucking maze. I figured I’d just walk around until I see drinks.”

 

“Ugh,” he says, pulling her through crowds of people until they eventually reach the kitchen. Seeing Feuilly, who he apparently knows, or at least knows more than the others, he drops Eponine off with him.

 

“She wants to drink more, but just make sure she doesn’t die,” he says, walking away.

 

“I’m chill. I’m good. Feuilly, what are you drinking?” she asks.

 

“It’s against my better judgement to offer you this. But I’m drunk too. So do you want some?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He pours some of his drink into Eponine’s cup and she drinks it. She barely feels a thing as it goes down her throat, but that’s to be expected from years of underaged drinking.

 

“Do you want to like, dance, Eponine?” he asks.

 

“Sure.”

 

She kind of puts her face on his chest and they move together back and forth. The top of Eponine’s head doesn’t even reach Feuilly’s chin and what they’re doing can’t really be considered dancing but she likes it enough. It’s only when she stumbles a little, laughs, tries to pull herself back up, and ends up pulling Feuilly down with her that she realizes she’s tired.

 

“Feuilly,” she says slowly, trying very hard not to sound drunk, “I’m very tired. Would Courfeyrac not like it if I slept in one of his rooms?”

 

He laughs, “I know for a fact he won’t care. I’ll take you to one in the back of the house. I doubt there’ll be any people trying to bang in there.”

 

“Thanks Feuilly. You are great. I appreciate you. Have you also seen Combeferre? We came here together and I like to talk to him and I haven’t talked to him all night. He drove me here in his car that Cliff bought him. Yeah, so, do you know where he is?”

 

“Let me put you in a room somewhere and then I’ll look for him, sound good?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Feuilly opens a random door (Eponine hadn’t even realized they had been walking) and reveals a bedroom. There’s a bed and a TV and a dresser and a desk.

 

“Thank you, Feuilly, you are a cinnamon roll,” she smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is Combeferre in here?”

 

“I’ll find him, okay. Just stay in here. Will you be okay? Do you feel sick?” he asks.

 

“I feel fine, but I just like, want to talk to him, you know, conversation or whatever. Even though sometimes when I talk to him I can see myself in the reflection of his glasses and I get distracted. I still want to.”

 

Feuilly comes back with Combeferre in exactly seven minutes.

 

“I come bearing gifts,” Feuilly says, “Or gift, I should say. Here he is.”

 

“Here I am! Were you really asking to talk to me or was Feuilly just fucking with me, cause if so, ha ha Feuilly, good one, but I’ll leave if you don’t want me here because you seem to be trying to sleep or something --” Combeferre is cut off.

 

“She was, dude! I’ll leave now,” Feuilly says, “Feel better Eponine!”

 

“I can still leave, though,” Combeferre says.

 

“Hi,” Eponine says. Her face is almost invisible in the dark and the fact that Combeferre is kind of drunk doesn’t help. “I’m not really sure why I asked Feuilly to find you. I feel stupid now. I just hadn’t seen you all night really and we came here together and I thought we could talk maybe. That was kind of stupid and selfish of me.”

 

He sits on the bed beside her, careful to sit close enough not to seem disgusted, but not close enough to touch. He passes her the bottle of whatever he was drinking.

 

“I’ve basically been looking for you all night,” he says, “You’re not any more stupid or selfish than I am.”

 

There’s a minute long silence.

 

“Tell me about your family,” she says, taking a drink.

 

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know. Your mom. Your dad. Siblings. Anything. I’m fascinated by families, really. They’re always so fucked up, you know?”

 

He takes the bottle from her and drinks from it. “My mom is nice. She had me when she was like, seventeen. So like, my age, which is wild. She’s a nurse, um, works a lot. She likes the fact that I’m good at school and will probably get a scholarship to college. Currently dating a psychiatrist, I think I told you already, who thinks I’m depressed and that I read too much. His name is Travis but he wants me to call him dad, which I refuse to do. I already told you about my sisters, I think. Anna lives in California, I haven’t seen her in years, and Nina and I don’t have the same father but we’re really close. She doesn’t call Travis dad, either.”

 

Eponine, in her cloudy drunkenness, doesn’t notice that he never mentions his father.

 

“I like Nina,” she says, “She sounds like she knows what’s up.”

 

“She definitely does,” he says, “But what about your family? You said your dad was like, really protective or something.”

 

“My family is awful!” she laughs, bitterly and drunkenly, “That’s all I really want to say. I love Gavroche though, and he’s basically mine, not my parents’. It’s like, he has a parent-teacher conference this Tuesday and I’m going. Not my parents. I’ve already taken off work and everything. That’s okay, though. When I turn 18 I want to try to get custody of him, somehow. But that’s like, two years away, you know? It’s not that I don’t think he can handle himself, I just don’t want him to have to deal with my parents’ shit. It’ll fuck him up for years to come. A kid should come home from school and get asked how his day is, not smacked around for looking too happy. I don’t know. Actually, forget I said that. Gross.”

 

Combeferre is quiet, his brown eyes thoughtful.

 

Before he can say anything, Eponine adds, “Just to be clear, my parents don’t hit my brother. They don’t hit anyone. I meant, like, metaphorically. They’re just kind of harsh, you know, normal parent stuff. They get mad if he gets a B on a test or something. I just think it’s a little unfair.”

 

It makes sense that Eponine is being abused. First of all, the bruises. Combeferre didn’t believe what she said about her clumsiness but he respected the fact that she didn’t want to tell him. He figured she had been fighting with her brother, or something. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants desperately to tell her that it’s okay, that he understands, and he’s here for her. But it’s not that simple. In his current state of fuzzy inebriation he wouldn’t even know where to start.

 

“You don’t have to tell me anything, or prove anything to me. I won’t ask. Tomorrow I’ll pretend like we never even had this conversation. But if you ever want to rant, get anything off your chest, or like, need anywhere to go…” he trails off. If Eponine is being abused, she needs to get out of the situation. But it might not be that easy. Accepting help doesn’t seem like it’s something she does often.

 

She drinks from the bottle for longer this time. Putting it in Combeferre’s hands, she says, “How drunk are you? On a scale from one to ten?”

 

“Hmm… Five.”

 

“I’ll tell you something if you finish that,” she says, gesturing to the alcohol in his hands, “Then you’ll be at least a seven and most likely won’t remember this when you wake up tomorrow.”

 

“Deal,” he says. It takes him a few minutes to finish, but he does.

 

“Will you answer a question now?” he asks, his words considerably more slurred than they had been previously.

 

“Yes,” she says. She doesn’t look him in the eyes.

 

His fingers reach up, grazing her collarbone. She flinches. This is the first time he’s consciously touched her.

 

His thumb traces the dark purple bruises. “Where did you get these?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.

 

“My house,” she says.

 

Combeferre almost smiles. “You know what I mean.”

 

“I don’t think I have to answer that. I think you have a pretty good guess. I was just trying to lighten the tension.”

 

“Was it your father?”

 

She nods. “His friends, um, sometimes, too.” She takes a deep breath.“You won’t remember this tomorrow,” she says and she lifts up her dress. On her stomach are angry bruises of purple and yellow and black and blue. She has a galaxy on her body; just as as dark, just as cold, just as unforgiving. On her thighs are thin white scars. Rows of perfect lines. Combeferre doesn’t think she meant for him to see those.

 

“I told you, dude, my parents suck. It’s really not a big thing, I promise, and I do deserve it because I’m kind of a little shit, but I would prefer if it didn’t happen, you know? It’s actually kind of nice that someone knows. It’s nice to get off my chest and it’s nice that tomorrow you’ll wake up without realizing this ever happened.”

 

Combeferre rambles when he’s sober. His drunk rambles are infinitely worse. It’s hard for him to form coherent sentences, but he tries, for her sake. “Eponine, first of all, I’ve met a lot of little shits in my life, and none of them deserve what you have to go through. Second of all, you’re not a little shit. I mean, maybe in the cute, endearing way. But not in the literal way. I mean, unless I’ve missed something and ‘little shit’ now means funny and cool and passionate and nice smelling and just generally awesome then yeah I’d say you’re a little shit but I’m almost positive that’s not what it means.”

 

He takes quick breath and continues before she can say anything, “I hope you don’t think I’m the worst and have no right to say this because I’m just some clown who tutors you but I hope you consider us friends -- I consider us friends -- and I just really don’t like hearing about bad things that happen to you because I don’t like bad things happening to my friends -- I mean, who does -- but I just want you to like, not have bad things happen to you, ever. Is that okay for me to say? I don’t want to say anything that might make you uncomfortable, that’s literally the last thing I ever want to do, I just don’t know how to really go about this.”

 

He bites his lip, “If you ever need someone to talk to, we’re friends, I think, I mean I hope, but you can always talk to me. Or like, stay at my house. If the necessity would ever arise. And I have a car so we could drive around if you ever wanted. I know that when I feel like shit I like to drive around so maybe that’s a thing. Am I overstepping my boundaries? I’ve just realized I’ve been talking for a long time. I’m so sorry.”

 

Eponine, in her drunk and stupefied state, realizes that she likes Combeferre. Like, she actually enjoys him as a person. Which rarely happens. She likes the way he rambles, always, and that he’s crazy smart but not pretentious, and that his opinions are insightful, and that his car always smells like Yankee Candle. She’s not sure what this means -- she’s never really even liked anyone as a friend before, aside from Grantaire. But they met when they were, like, seven. It’s not like Marius, and it’s not like Montparnasse, but it’s not like Grantaire either.

 

“You won’t remember this tomorrow,” she reminds him.

  
Her chapped lips meet his soft ones in a split second decision. His eyes widen and she laughs against his lips, causing their teeth to knock together. The kiss is unsophisticated and inexperienced. She decides it’s her favorite.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K SO also i’ve basically decided to make this as stereotypically high school as possible and i honestly. just. i’m sorry  
> also sorry for the fact that this probably turned out to be awful but I physically can't work on it anymore   
> tell me what u think even if you didn't like it! i love criticism   
> thank u


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that my updating schedule is awful! I'm supposed to be writing this 4000 word extended essay for IB and i keep putting it off by writing this. for some reason i can crank out 4000 words of this in a few hours and yet i only have like 500 words on my essay. anyways. this is unedited so please look beyond any errors you might come accross. hope you enjoy :')

Eponine wakes up confused. Where the fuck is she and why is it so comfortable and warm? She manages to pry her sleepy eyes open and blinks twice. The light does not hurt her eyes because Eponine does not get hangovers.

 

She’s in a bed and it looks expensive. The sheets are probably, like, 5 billion thread count or whatever rich people like to put on their guest beds. Eponine looks to her left. There is a fancy looking tapestry hanging on the wall. She looks to her right. There is a boy in her bed.

 

She squeaks involuntarily, shutting her eyes, hoping it will make last night go away. She told Combeferre about her life last night, which, upon reflection, was not a very smart thing to do. She also kissed Combeferre last night and she’s not sure how she feels about it. Actually, she does know how she feels: she feels great about it. But she’s not sure how she feels about feeling great about it. After she kissed him they had, she cringes at just the thought, cuddled. Drunkenly. And they had fallen asleep together. In each other's arms. It's all too much for Eponine to handle this early in the morning. Looking at the clock on the wall, she cringes again. It's noon. She was supposed to be at work at nine.

 

Spotting her phone on the floor, she attempts to extract herself carefully from the heavy and nice and disgustingly warm arms of Combeferre and slip away undetected. Instead, she gracefully bumps into the table next to the bed, knocking over an ornate lamp.

 

“Eponine?" she hears a sleepy voice ask. It's disgusting, truly, how delightful it is.

 

She hesitates. She doesn't think he would be gullible enough to believe her if she tells him he's dreaming. "Uh, hi," she says.

 

"Good morning."

 

She laughs. "It's afternoon.”

 

“Don’t you have work?” he asks, his eyes still half-closed.

 

“Actually, I was supposed to be at work forever ago, so now I have to call Josh and make up some bullshit excuse that I have mono or something or else I'll be fired from my shitty coffee job which is why I was reaching for my phone which is how I accidentally woke you up. Sorry about that.”

 

"Oh God, this is my fault. I brought you here, I'm awful. I'll call Josh for you, if you want. I'll even go down there and tell him that I'm the one who gave you mono. I can get you a signed doctor's note, probably, since Travis is technically a doctor. I mean, he can't really diagnose mono, only mental stuff, but I'm sure Josh doesn't know that," he says, his morning voice still present.

 

"You know what? Yeah, call Josh for me. I'd love to see that. After all, you did get me into all this. You're a terrible influence. Tell him I'm, like, too sick to call. And that I won't be able to come in this weekend. No, wait, tell him I won't be able to come in all week. My mono that I received from you is just so contagious and awful and I can't bear the thought of getting other people sick. Say that. Verbatim."

 

She crawls onto the floor and grabs her phone, disregarding the missed calls from her father, and dials Josh's number. "We'd better do it now, before you lose your morning voice. Or else you won't sound sick," she passes him the phone, "It's ringing." She laughs almost diabolically.

 

He laughs, putting the phone on speaker.

 

"Hello?" Josh says over the phone.

 

"Hi," Combeferre says, coughing for effect, "I'm calling about Eponine Thenardier. As you probably know, she didn't come to work today. I'm afraid she has mono."

 

Eponine mouths, "keep going" while holding back laughter.

 

"Who is this?" Josh asks.

 

Combeferre ignores him, "Yes, and I'm afraid I gave it to her. She's just so irresistible, don't you agree? I couldn't help it. It was like her lips had lips and they were saying 'kiss me' and well, you know Eponine, she's such a charmer, how could you expect me not to? The poor thing wanted to call you herself but I had to put my foot down. How could I, as her designated caretaker, let her exacerbate her illness?" He laughs but quickly turns it into another cough.

 

"Um, I guess that's fine," Josh says hesitantly, "Do you know when she'll be back at work?"

 

"She definitely can't come in for at least a week. You should see her, she looks like death--" Eponine pushes Combeferre indignantly "-- I mean obviously beautiful as usual but the poor thing is just a mess. Here, I'll put her on, but only for a minute," he says, biting his lip to hold back laughter.

 

Eponine coughs into the phone, "Josh? Is that you? Do you need me at work today? I can try to..." she trails off into another coughing fit.

 

"Uh, no Eponine, you just... Get better?" Josh says awkwardly.

 

"Thank you, Josh. You're a kind soul." Combeferre says, hanging up.

 

“Have I pleased you, Madame? Have I made up for the egregious sins I have committed? I promise never to lead you astray ever again,” he laughs.

 

“Yeah, I think I forgive you,” she says, “Well, I should probably, uh, go home now. My parents are probably wondering where I am.”

 

“Do you really have to go? I mean, since you don’t have work, maybe we could do something? If you want?” he asks.

 

Eponine knows she’s self-destructive. It’s kinda her thing. Which is probably why she keeps agreeing to hang out with Combeferre.

 

“Yeah, okay. Do you think Courfeyrac would let me take a shower here first though?”

 

“He really won’t care. He probably isn’t even awake yet.”

 

Eponine showers in one of the many bathrooms in the Courfeyrac house. Having consistent hot water isn’t something Eponine is used to at her house, so she savors it and the fancy soap for as long as she can. With nothing else to do in the shower, her mind wanders. Does Combeferre remember last night? Does he regret it and want to spare her the awkwardness by not mentioning it? Is he just too nice to reject her? She doesn’t even know if he has anything to reject! Was it just a drunk spur of the moment thing? She needs to stop asking herself rhetorical questions. Getting out of the shower, she puts on her gray dress on. It still smells fairly clean and at least no one threw up on it.

 

“So what are we doing today?” she asks. She decides not to bring up last night. He probably doesn’t remember, and if she brought it up she’d just embarrass herself and ruin whatever friendship seems to be developing.

 

“Well, I have to run by my house first to assure my mom that I’m not dead. And then we can do whatever. The world is our oyster. I have a full tank of gas,” he says.

 

They walk into the main area of the house. It’s a disaster. Like, stereotypical teen party movie level disaster. Courfeyrac, among most of his other friends, is collapsed on a couch. Eponine notices Grantaire and Enjolras are not present.

 

“Should we thank him?” she gestures to Courfeyrac, “It was his party.”

 

“Definitely not. Courfeyrac gets the worst hangovers and if I’m around when he’s awake he’ll beg me to take care of him and I want to hang out with you today so let’s hurry before he gets up,” he says, dragging her out the front door.

 

“Speaking of hangovers,” she asks, walking down to Combeferre’s car, “Why don’t you have one?”

 

“I don’t get them. My teenage body has blessed me. I’m assuming yours has too.”

 

“I’ve only gotten one in my life. I think I have a mild gluten intolerance, so when I drink a lot of beer it doesn’t turn out well. Which is why I don’t drink beer. Only hard liquor for me,” she laughs, getting into the car. The smell of pumpkin spice is comforting.

 

“Wow, Eponine Thenardier with a gluten allergy. If anyone found out that you’re actually human I think your reputation as ‘unapproachable vampire babe’ would be in ruins.”

 

“Is that really my reputation?” she asks, “Awesome. I need more black lipstick.”

 

He laughs.

 

“Can I put on music?” she asks, “Do you have, like, a collection of CDs in here? You strike me as the CD type. I bet you listen to Iron & Wine.”

 

“Woah, do you not like Iron & Wine? Get out of my car.”

 

“They’re fine! You just look like you listen to them. Let’s see. Death Cab for Cutie, Bright Eyes, Neutral Milk Hotel,” she says, looking through his CDs, “You’re such a hipster, oh my God. So angsty.”

 

“Leave me alone!” he laughs, “I listen to Bright Eyes and wallow in teen angst just like the rest of you.”

 

“Lana Del Rey, Simon & Garfunkel, NSYNC, Shakira. Your music taste is wild. I respect that so hard,” she says, “Oh my God, you made mix CDs. This day just keeps getting better. We have to listen to one.”

 

They listen in silence.

 

“This song is good,” Eponine says.

 

“If you don’t like it you can seriously change it. I won’t be offended,” he replies.

 

“I just said I liked it!”

 

“I don’t want you to lie just to make me feel better.”

 

“Trust me, I won’t. Where is your house, anyway?”

 

“It’s like, five minutes away. Do you want to meet my mom and Travis?”

 

“I don’t usually leave good first impressions on people’s parents.”

 

“Bullshit. You’re perfectly nice. You can meet Nina, too.”

 

“Didn’t you just say I give off an ‘unapproachable vampire babe’ vibe? Plus, I’m not good with kids.”

 

“It’ll be five minutes.”

 

“Ugh, okay. But don’t expect them to like me. And only five minutes.”

 

They pull into the driveway.

 

“Ew,” Combeferre says, “Noah’s car is here. I forgot to tell you. Travis has a son named Noah but I didn’t feel he was relevant enough to be included. He lives with his mom half the time. He’s our age and awful. I need you to come in with me. I can’t deal with him alone. I need you to strike fear into his heart.”

 

“That I can do,” she says.

 

Combeferre’s house is cute and is warm like he is. It’s small, nothing special, but gives off the illusion of grandeur.

 

“Mom!” Combeferre yells from the bottom of the staircase, “I’m home!”

 

A man’s voice replies from the room on the left. “Your mother is sleeping, Nick.”

 

Who the fuck is Nick?

 

“Oh, okay. Well I’m only stopping by. I just needed to grab my phone charger,” Combeferre replies.

 

“Your name is Nick?” Eponine whispers.

 

Combeferre laughs, “Did you think Combeferre was my first name?”

 

Eponine’s entire perception of reality has just been dealt a major blow. It makes sense. Almost the entire social justice squad goes by their last names. What the fuck kind of teenagers do that?

 

“Where are you going?” the man, Eponine assumes is Travis, asks, walking into the living room. He’s tall and skinny and looks like what you would imagine a psychiatrist to look like.

 

“We’re just going to do something. I’m not sure. Travis, this is Eponine. Eponine, this is Travis.”

 

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” Eponine says.

 

“Is she your girlfriend, Nick?” Travis asks.

 

“No, no, we’re friends,” Eponine says hastily.

 

“We’re just gonna go upstairs now. See you, Travis,” Combeferre says, dragging Eponine up the stairs.

 

“So that’s Travis. He’s awful, I’m sorry,” Combeferre says.

 

“I’m sorry you have to deal with him. At least my parents couldn’t care less where I go,” she says.

 

He opens a door, which Eponine assumes is the door to his room. She’s right. It’s fairly big and kind of messy, with a few socks and pairs of jeans on the floor, that kind of stuff. There’s a bookshelf filled completely with books in one corner, but there are books stacked all over the room in addition. There’s a tank which sits on a desk in the other corner that seems to have some sort of lizard or reptilian creature in it. On his walls are a few band posters, a map, and what seem to be polaroid pictures. The room is so utterly Combeferre it hurts. Eponine loves it.

 

“Sorry it’s kind of messy,” he says, reaching down to a plug by his bed and unplugging his phone charger.

 

“Your room is so cute. It’s like you but in room form,” she quickly continues, “What’s your lizard’s name?”

 

“Rasputin,” he laughs.  

 

“Excuse me?” she asks.

 

“His name is Rasputin. I named him when we were learning about Russia in History class and I just thought he was a cool guy. Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs.

 

“Combeferre, that is beautiful. I had a pet fish that I won at a carnival once but Gavroche made me name him Bruce. And he died like a week later.”

 

And then the door opens. And there’s a woman standing there. She’s in her mid-thirties and is beautiful. Obviously she’s Combeferre’s mother. She has long wavy hair the same color as Combeferre’s and their bone structure is almost identical. Her eyes, however, are blue, while his are brown.

 

“Nick!” she says, “Travis told me you were here and I didn’t want to miss you. Who’s this?”

 

“Mom, this is my friend Eponine. Eponine, this is my mom.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Eponine! Where has Nick been hiding you?” she says, pulling her into a light hug, nearly giving Eponine a heart attack.

 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Eponine says, laughing.

 

“So what are you two up to today?” she asks, smiling. Her smile is beautiful. Her eyes look tired.

 

“We’re not sure. Just gonna drive around or something. Are you tired? Travis said you were sleeping,” Combeferre says.

 

“I had a late shift last night,” she smiles slightly, “Don’t worry. You two have fun!” She kisses Combeferre on the cheek and surprisingly does the same to Eponine.

 

“She’s lovely,” Eponine says after his mom leaves.

 

“Today’s one of her good days,” Combeferre says, “Not that she’s not always lovely. She just works a lot and gets tired.”

 

“She looks like you. Or you look like her, rather,” she says.

 

He smiles. “You ready to head out, kid?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“What?”

 

“Kid?”

 

“Would you prefer kiddo?”

 

“We’re the same fucking age!”

 

“You’re still sixteen. I’m seventeen.”

 

“That’s irrelevant.”

 

“You’re a baby.”

 

“You’re a baby!”

 

“Ready to go kiddo?”

 

She shoves him. They walk to his car smiling.

“I’m mad I didn’t see Nina, though,” Eponine says.

 

“You’ll just have to come over again, then,” he says.

 

“Maybe. I’d like to see Rasputin again. I didn’t even get to hold him.”

 

“He’s very sweet. Loves to be held. Loves when you tickle his back.”

 

“I’m sure the real Rasputin was the same way,” she laughs, “Where are we going, anyway?” She realized they were on the highway.

 

“Where do you want to go? We could just drive until we happen upon an exciting destination,” he says.

 

“What if we never happen upon an exciting destination?” she asks.

 

“Then we realize that the journey is more important than the destination. It’ll be fun. Also, do you want food? I just realized we haven’t eaten.”

 

“How did we just forget to eat? Gross. Yeah. I want food.”

 

Twenty minutes later they’re back on the road and they have Chick-fil-A in their laps.

 

“Eponine, I can’t take my hands of the wheel, please just put a waffle fry in my mouth.”

 

“You should have thought about that before you decided you could eat and drive at the same time,” she laughs, dangling the fries directly in front of his face.

 

“Eponine,” he half laughs, half groans, “This is awful, please, you’ve tortured me enough. I bought these waffle fries. This is my car! You can’t do this.”

 

“Fine! You’re a baby,” she says, feeding him the fry. Her fingers accidentally brush against his bottom lip in the process. She pulls away.

 

An hour later she sits cross-legged in the passenger seat, looking through the stuff in Combeferre’s glove compartment.

 

“Who actually keeps gloves in their glove compartment?” Eponine laughs.

 

“Dude, it’s cold outside. What if the car breaks down? My hands would be the first to go.”

 

“Is this giant first aid kit really necessary?”

 

“Joly insists we all should have one.”

 

“A picture of the entire cast of Golden Girls?”

 

“Okay, Bahorel put that in there as a joke, but little did he know that I actually live for Golden Girls. So now I keep it in there so they can always watch over me and keep me from getting into car accidents. I haven’t been in one yet and I think I have Bea Arthur to thank for that.”

 

“That’s beautiful. Truly.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Dude, you keep a polaroid camera in your glove compartment? Nice.”

 

“You never know when you need to stop and take a corny polaroid picture of a sunset and write a shitty poem about it on the back.”

 

Eponine points the camera at herself and takes a picture of her making a straight face.

 

“Now you’ll remember me as I always was. Bored and slightly pissed off.”

 

“I’m boring you?”

 

“Oh, God no. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I’ll even take a picture of me smiling to prove it.” She takes the picture and doesn’t look at it.

 

“Can I put those pictures on my wall?”

 

“You’re gross and corny and I can’t believe you have a wall dedicated to polaroid pictures. But yes,” she says. She’s happy he asked.

 

“Dude, look,” Combeferre says. They’ve been driving through the countryside for a while, and now to their right is a giant field of sunflowers. It’s so big that they can’t see the end of the field. It seems to extend forever.

 

“What the hell?” she laughs, “This is wild. Let’s go sit in it.”

 

He parks the car on the side of the road, grabs the camera out of her hands, and drags her out of the car.

 

Her hand remains in his as he pulls her into the field.

 

“Why is this here?” he laughs, “How did we find it? It’s as if the gods knew we are two teenagers who have a polaroid camera with film to spare.”

 

She sits down, taking a picture of the flowers.

 

“I would like to live in this field of sunflowers, Combeferre. And never leave. And never have to go back to school. Fuck Calculus! I never want to go back to work. I never want to go home. Never want to see my parents again.”

 

He sits next to her. “Okay,” he says, taking the camera from her hands. He takes a picture of her. With the flowers in the background, she is ethereal.

 

“Let me see that,” she says.

 

“It’s going on my wall regardless of what you think of it.”

 

“Let me take one of you, then. I’ll put it on my wall. And I’ll write a shitty poem on the back,” she says.

 

He gives her the camera.

 

“Look away! I’m trying to get a candid and you can’t look into the camera,” she says, pushing his face to the side. His curly hair is almost a halo. She takes the picture.

 

It’s later and they’re lying down now, in the field of sunflowers. A bird flies above.

 

“I am a hawk with velvet claws,” Eponine says softly.

 

“Did you just quote Kurt Vonnegut to me? Are you serious?” he laughs, “And you call me corny. You didn’t even get the quote right. Wait until everyone at school finds out that Eponine Thenardier, unapproachable ice babe, reads Vonnegut and likes to lie in fields of sunflowers.”

 

“I know what the quote is, loser. I changed it,” she says.

 

“I like your version. It suits you,” he says.

 

He pulls the camera up to her face, taking another picture of her. She pushes the camera away. He kisses her this time. Her breath catches but she doesn’t pull away. She wouldn’t dare. Combeferre is warm and safe and the kiss is nothing like the one last night, the one that was sloppy and nothing but teeth and giggles. This one is smooth and silky, nothing but spirit and warmth. Eponine never thought her favorite kiss would take place in the dirt, surrounded by miles of sunflowers.

 

She pulls away. “Why did you do that?” she asks.

 

“I wanted to. I’m sorry, I should have asked…”

  
She kisses him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING! please leave feedback/comments/criticism !!!! i live for it and it really makes my entire life


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been a while!!!!!! i have been ~hella stressed~ lately but the good news is i finished my extended essay! so i wrote this to celebrate. also if anyone has anything they'd like to see happen in this story, please feel free to tell me and i might incorporate it in! thank u and enjoy :~)

Combeferre tastes like Dr. Pepper and something minty. He probably uses organic toothpaste. The experience is foreign and strange and neither of them know what to make of it; after all, they’re polar opposites, and they shouldn’t even be on speaking terms, let alone kissing terms. But neither of them pulls away. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it. His hands are gripping her shoulders for dear life, as if she will disappear at any moment. They are both completely sober this time. In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, as he has been a recurring theme on this day, everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

 

All things must come to an end. And this kiss is no exception. Once it’s over, Eponine is hit with a wave of something she’s never felt before. Combeferre has really fucked up her emotional spectrum.

 

Combeferre speaks first. “I’m sorry,” he says.

 

“For what?”

 

“Kissing you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I probably made things weird between us. You were probably content with me as a friend and I had to go and ruin that.”

 

She doesn’t speak. Emotions are not something that she’s ever discussed with anyone before. Other than Grantaire, but usually with him she’s talking about her parents and her life. She’s never had to talk about her feelings for another person to that said person.

 

“You didn’t ruin anything. I’ve, um, been trying to pay more attention to my emotions lately. Like, recognize when I’m happy and stuff. Because usually I just keep it locked away. But my limited emotional range recognizes that, like, you’re a good thing. And I like doing stuff with you. And I think that thing we just did,” Eponine refuses to call it a kiss, because, gross, “was nice. So don’t feel weird.”

 

“That’s nice to hear. For the record, I think that thing we just did was kind of nice too.”

 

“Only kind of?”

 

“Shut up. It was very nice.”

 

That’s the last they speak about it. They leave the sunflower field side by side, arms touching, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

 

~~~

 

Whatever the thing she has going on with Combeferre is, Eponine doesn’t hate it. They’re not dating, but there’s some sort of unspoken agreement between them that they are more than friends. It’s complicated, but everything with Eponine is complicated. Combeferre doesn’t mind.

 

They go to school as normal; Grantaire gives Eponine rides most days. They have tutoring as normal; Eponine begins to grasp Calculus as if she has been doing it for years. She goes to ABC meetings sometimes. They haven’t kissed again.

 

Musichetta is beautiful, per usual, and starts to hang out with Eponine a lot, but she and Cosette are often a package deal. Eponine is surprised that she doesn’t mind. She would even venture as far as to say she likes Cosette.

 

In reality, Eponine would venture as far as to say that she likes the entire social justice squad. Joly and Bossuet are often present when Eponine and Musichetta hang out (Eponine finds out that they are in fact in a polyamorous relationship and it’s fucking awesome) and she finds that she kind of likes the fact that they’re there. Joly is a human ray of sunshine and also is surprisingly funny. Eponine also finds out that he does in fact have a prosthetic leg and is really chill about it. He takes it off all the time and it’s A1 prank material. Bossuet is cute and tall and the clumsiest person Eponine has ever met. It’s fitting that he’s with Joly and Musichetta, who are constantly fretting over his well being, because without them keeping an eye on him he’d probably be seriously injured by now. He’s also incredibly funny and loves puns. If he’s lucky, one of his puns will be bad enough to warrant a smack from Joly’s leg (the prosthetic one).  

 

French class with Bahorel is interesting. They’re partners for every assignment and since Bahorel is weirdly good at french they finish within the first twenty minutes, which leaves time for Bahorel to introduce her to some new weird underground music artist or show her pictures of cats. It’s the highlight of Eponine’s day.

 

She also thinks he has something going on with Feuilly. Or maybe he’s just one of those “praises literally everything Feuilly does” guys because those definitely exist (Enjolras) but Eponine senses it’s different. In art, Feuilly has taken to drawing detailed pairs of disembodied hands. They look a lot like Bahorel’s, but Eponine keeps quiet.

 

Econ with Jehan is cute and ridiculous, much like Jehan himself. They talk about literature and occasionally discuss the flaws in American capitalist society (it is economics after all) and no one would think that they’d get along but they do. He and Courfeyrac have a thing (how did she not notice before?) and they’re very cute and very in love. Jehan shows her the poems he writes about him and even writes her poetry sometimes. She reminds herself to write him something one day.

 

Grantaire and Eponine have also been initiated into the social justice squad lunch table. She sits between Grantaire and Musichetta and across from Combeferre; Grantaire sits next to Enjolras. He pretends that he hates it.

 

Eponine and Combeferre have gotten into the habit of having their tutoring at Combeferre’s house instead of in the library. And what are supposed to be one hour sessions turn into “Eponine stays over until 11:30 PM but Combeferre is on a provisional drivers license because he’s under 18 and he’s not allowed to drive legally past midnight so Travis makes him drive her home because she’s not allowed to sleep over” sessions. It’s better than being at her house, Eponine thinks.

 

Combeferre finds himself coming to the Musain when he knows she’s working and staying until her shift ends. He just sits - it’s not like he’s distracting her or anything (although sometimes it’s unavoidable, come on) - he just does homework and reads and talks to her when business is slow. Sometimes other members of the social justice squad are there, sometimes it’s just him. Eponine would never admit that she likes it.

 

Mondays, for both Eponine and Combeferre, soon become the most anticipated day of the week.

 

It’s early October and the leaves are just beginning to change. It’s cold but not too cold - cold enough for them to turn the heat on when they get into the car.

 

“You changed your air freshener,” Eponine says.

 

“I’m trying to keep them seasonal but I’m running out of options,” he admits, backing out of the school parking lot, “There are only so many pumpkin and apple scents at Bath and Body Works.”

 

“You get your air fresheners at Bath and Body Works?” she asks.

 

“Yeah. They have the best selection.”

 

“Do you also buy their body washes? I got one that gave me a rash once.”

 

“I have sensitive skin. Plus, do you know how many chemicals are in that shit? Enjolras would slay me if he found out I was buying body wash that isn’t natural.”

 

“Speaking of natural, Mr. Brady yelled at this girl in Econ today for wearing too much makeup. It was gross. I was going to yell at him but surprisingly enough, Jehan got there first. It was so cute - Jehan’s all flowers and hair but he fucking put Brady in his place. It was quite a sight to behold.”

 

“He’s so passionate about stuff. I wish I could’ve been there. Él es un espectáculo digno de ver cuando está enojado.”

 

“Excuse me? I have no idea what you just said. You know I’m taking French.”

 

He laughs, “Yikes, sorry. I said ‘he’s a sight to see when he’s mad.’ I have a Spanish oral test tomorrow and I’m stressed. I’ve been trying to teach myself Albanian and I’m worried that I might have kind of neglected Spanish in the meantime.”

 

“You’re the worst. You’re better at Spanish than, like, anyone. You read 100 Years of Solitude in Spanish and I couldn’t even understand it in English. You’ll be fine.”

 

“Ugh, don’t say that. Will you help me study after we do calc?”

 

“No.”

 

“Eponine! My future is at stake here!”

 

“You’re such a baby! Fine. I will study with you.”

 

“If you’re going to talk to me in Spanish please refer to me as the formal ‘usted.’”

 

“I don’t even know what that means.”

 

“It’s like using ‘vous’ in French.”

 

“Ew, I will not.”

 

After mastering a new subject in Calculus, they move on to Spanish. Eponine holds up a flashcard and reads it.

 

“Conjugate the verb 'ser' in the present yo form. Whatever that means,” she says.

 

“That's too easy,” he says.

 

“It's literally on your flashcard,” she says.

 

“Fine. Soy,” he says.

 

“Weird. Okay, use it in a sentence,” she says.

 

“Um. Soy un hombre.”

 

“You're too advanced for this. I even know what that means,” she says, flipping through the flashcards, “Okay. Discuss a problem you wish you could fix. In Spanish, obviously.”

 

“Wow, I didn’t realize I was in a beauty pageant. Okay…” he says, “Quiero vivir en una sociedad donde educación es gratuita y disponible para todo el mundo.”

 

“I don't know what that means. It sounded generally correct, but who am I to judge? I'm probably not the best person to be helping you study.”

 

“I said, I want to live in a world where education is free and accessible to everyone. Also, I wouldn't want anyone else to help me. Shut up.”

 

Eponine laughs, “You're lame. But cute dream. Anyway,” she says, looking at another flashcard, “Discuss your favorite thing.”

 

Combeferre hesitates. “Mi cosa favorita es... Me gusta polillas, y literatura, espacio exterior, pollo dinosaurio, yoga, claroscuro, sirenas, escribir ensayos, la lista es larga. Principalmente, es una chica que es mi cosa favorita de siempre. Estoy feliz que este chica no entiende español porque ella está escuchando ahora mismo y sería vergonzoso si está entendiendo.”

 

“I’m literally the worst study partner. What does that mean?”

 

“Uh, I said I like moths, literature, outer space, dinosaur chicken nuggets, except I didn’t know how to say nuggets so I just said dinosaur chicken, remind me to look that up, yoga, chiaroscuro, mermaids, writing essays. The list is long.”

 

“You do yoga?” she asks, “Also, what was the last part?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, “I go to class sunday mornings at 10. Want to come with?”

 

“Um, maybe if you tell me what you said, I’ll consider it.”

 

“I said Eponine is awful and gross and most definitely not my favorite thing.”

 

“I can just translate what you said. I remember some words. Like ‘feliz’ and ‘chica.’”

 

“‘Feliz’ means happy and ‘chica’ means girl.”

 

“So your favorite thing is a happy girl?” she asks, laughing, “Is it Cosette? That’s understandable. She’s cute and happy and great but you do know she’s dating Marius? I mean, I don’t really know how you could not know, it’s not like they try to hide it, but like, good for you and all.”

 

“It’s not Cosette. And I didn’t even say I liked a happy girl. I said something involving my happiness and a girl.”

 

“Is it Sarah from Calc? Combeferre, I get that she’s cute and is all over you and laughs at everything you say but like, you barely know her. How is she already your favorite thing?” Eponine continues, “It’s just illogical. I thought you were supposed to be logical.”

 

“It’s not Sarah from calc. It’s not a big deal! I said it in Spanish so you wouldn’t be able to understand.”

 

“Wow, screw you.”

 

“Eponine, I’m sorry,” he laughs, “I was talking about you, loser. You’re my favorite thing. I didn’t say it because it’s dumb and corny and I know you hate dumb and corny.”

 

Eponine cannot help herself from blushing. “I do not hate dumb and corny.”

 

“Literally earlier today you said ‘Combeferre, stop being so dumb and corny.’ That is a direct quote,” he says, laughing.

 

“Ugh, stop. I’m sorry. I’m the worst, forgive me. I like dumb and corny. Well, not on just anyone. But you’re okay.”

 

“Good. I’m glad you think so,” he says.

 

Littered with textbooks and novels and random items (including a half-finished lego model of the Taj Mahal) is Combeferre’s floor where he and Eponine are sitting, cross-legged, knees touching. Combeferre finds himself tugging the flashcards out of Eponine’s hands (and putting them down carefully of course - he wouldn’t want them out of order) and replacing them with his hand in hers. It is strangely the most intimate touch they’ve shared. The feeling of Combeferre’s warm fingers intertwined with hers and the sight of his warm brown eyes, with genuine light in them, is enough to make Eponine freeze. Kissing, she’s okay with. Hand holding? Never.

 

She flinches and pulls her hand out of his, wrapping her arms around herself.

 

He picks up the forgotten flashcards. “I’m sorry. Do you want to go back to -” He’s interrupted by her lips on his. His sight is blocked by a mass of brown hair and suddenly she’s in his lap and her hands are on his chest.

 

Her lips continue to attack his, almost desperately, as his hands tangle in her hair. Combeferre, again, tastes like mint toothpaste, and the places on Eponine where his lips touch - her lips, her cheeks, her neck - sting as if they had been burned. The sensation is strangely pleasant.

 

She bites his lip and he lets out a tiny moan. Eponine laughs, her eyes closed, into Combeferre’s neck.  

 

“Eponine?” Combeferre asks, pushing her away slightly.

 

“Yeah?” she replies, out of breath.

 

“I think my nose is bleeding.”

 

She opens her eyes and Combeferre’s nose is, in fact, bleeding.

 

“Oh my God!” she laughs, “Did I do that?”

 

“Probably not,” he says, “The air has just been really dry lately, I think, and I’ve been getting them a lot.” He laughs, reaching over to his desk to get a tissue.

 

“I’m pretty sure I knocked into your nose a few times, though,” she says.

 

“Well I think it was worth it, anyway.”

 

~~~

His nosebleed has long since subsided and both of their homework assignments have long since been completed.

 

For Combeferre, lying on his twin sized bed with Eponine Thenardier is heaven. His legs kind of hang off the end since he’s so tall (or as Eponine has said to Grantaire on many an occasion “he’s fucking 6’4 dude”) and he has to scrunch up his body to make room for her, but right now he is euphoric. Her hair is soft in his hands as he plays with it absentmindedly, careful to not touch her body with his. He has learned quickly that Eponine is hypersensitive when it comes to being touched, and doesn’t think it’s a good idea to try and test her boundaries.

 

The warmth radiating from her little frame next to his is almost intoxicating - Combeferre has never felt anything like it. The freckles on her face form constellations in the vast and unknown galaxy that is Eponine. He’s had girlfriends before (not that he and Eponine are dating, but still) and he’s been under the impression that he liked them very much, but the way he feels in this moment, in all of the moments shared with her, is unlike anything he’s ever encountered.

 

She doesn’t try to, but just by existing, she lifts Combeferre up. Always busy mothering the group of children he has to watch over (aka the ABC club), he and his feelings often are left to fall through the cracks. So it’s nice for him to have someone around who can bring him up on his bad days without even trying.

 

Eponine is not the sun in a sky of clouds, but the lightning and thunder that make a storm formidable; impressing and intimidating and inspiring him all at once. He is completely and utterly taken with her.

 

And he knows she’s not big on commitment but he has to ask.

 

“Eponine?” he says.

 

“Hm?” she responds, eyes closed.

 

“I know this sounds cringey, but I’ll hate myself if I don’t ask. What are we?”

 

She laughs. “You’re right. That was awful,” she says, “But I don’t know if we have to label it. I like what we’re doing. Why change?”  

 

“I like what we’re doing too,” he says, “And please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just… I just really like what we’re doing. And I’m wondering where it’s going, you know?” Listening to those words come out of his own mouth makes Combeferre cringe. He didn’t mean it in the way it sounds, but judging by the look on Eponine’s face, she got the wrong idea.

 

“Are you trying to tell me that I’m not good enough to be included in your future plans?” she asks, eyes springing open, “Are you saying that because I’m me and you’re you that this, whatever this is, can’t go anywhere?”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying at all! Look, it came out totally wrong -”

 

“Or maybe you just said what you were really thinking and now you’re embarrassed that it slipped out. Oh my God, I knew it.”

 

“Eponine, seriously, listen that’s not what I meant -”

 

“I cannot believe this. Actually, no, I can. I should have known that you and your little squad wanting to hang out with me was weird. What was the point of any of this, then? If you don’t think I’m good enough to be anything more than someone you tutor, why even bother making me feel like I was?” she says angrily, getting out of his bed and putting on her shoes.

 

“Seriously, please listen to me,” Combeferre says, touching her shoulder. Another mistake. She flinches and gives him what might possibly be the most cold and haunting glare in the history of cold and haunting glares. He puts his hands up in surrender.

 

“I meant it in the complete opposite way, I swear. I asked where this was going because I want it to go somewhere! I’m just an idiot and didn’t know how to talk to you about it so it came off terribly. Please don’t leave.”

 

“I’d like to believe you, but really, it makes sense. I get that it might be an interesting character study for you to get to observe Eponine Thenardier up close, but contrary to popular belief, I actually have feelings. And I -” she cuts herself off, and busies herself with putting her school stuff back in her backpack.  

 

“Eponine, I’m not lying. You’re amazing. Heart-stoppingly so. I will literally never be able to forgive myself if you leave right now over a misunderstanding, please. I like you a lot, so much it scares me, actually, and I -”

 

She cuts him off again. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, walking past him and out of his bedroom. He doesn’t follow her; he knows it would just make things worse.

 

This is what he gets.

 

~~~

 

Days pass with no contact. Eponine looks determinedly away from Combeferre for the entire 90 minutes of Calculus, as his eyes bore holes in the back of her head. Combeferre notices the hickies he had given her on Monday have been covered by new bruises. The sight makes him physically ache.

 

Eponine still talks to Bahorel and Jehan and Musichetta and the rest of the social justice squad during classes they have together - just enough to be polite.

 

She’s at Grantaire’s house after school, sitting on his bed painting her nails while Kitchen Nightmares plays in the background. So far they’ve watched six episodes.

 

“Dude, this can’t be real,” Grantaire laughs, “Eponine, look, Gordon Ramsay made that lady cry again.”

 

Eponine tears her eyes away from her toes to see Gordon Ramsay screaming at the red-faced manager of the restaurant.

 

“I feel like that lady right now,” Eponine says.

 

“You don’t cry nearly as much as she does. And your face isn’t ever that red. You have too many freckles,” he says, poking her face.

 

“Shut up,” she says, “Can I paint your nails?” Eponine has a weird thing for nail-painting. She gets really into it and can do little intricate designs and shit. Not that she actually does the designs - normally she just paints them black - but there’s something therapeutic about painting nails and that’s exactly what she needs.

 

Grantaire shrugs, “If it’ll make you feel better.”

 

She reaches over and grabs his hand.

 

She sighs, “I always wish I had your hands. Your fingers are so elegant and graceful.”

 

“Wow,” he says, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone say that. But now that I think about it…” he says, examining his hand that’s not currently being painted, “You’re kind of right. I could be a hand model. This punk ass town can’t hold me back.”

 

Grantaire’s phone vibrates. “Who’s that?” he asks.

 

Eponine checks the screen. It’s Enjolras. Enjolras is texting Grantaire? Has the whole world gone insane?

 

“It’s Enjolras?” she says.

 

Grantaire would be blushing if he hadn’t already mastered the ability to hide the fact that he’s embarrassed.

 

“You’re such a dweeb. Are you two a thing? I’m here for that,” Eponine says.

 

“We are not a thing. We just text sometimes. Mostly it’s just to argue, so don’t get your hopes up,” he sighs, “He seems to have realized that through the amazing innovations of technology he can continue to destroy me even when we’re not together in person.”

 

“You know they say when a boy is mean to another boy it means he likes him.”

 

“I don’t think anyone has ever said that, actually,” he says, “But texting him is better than not texting him so I’ll take what I can get.”

 

“He really needs to get over himself. One day he’ll realize that he’s missing a cute dirty hipster in his life and make a move,” she says, “He’s just too God damn self righteous.”

 

“Well, whatever he is, I’m in too deep,” he says, “Speaking of which, are you going to the meeting tomorrow?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

“Why the hell not? You can’t just leave me to go alone, I’m serious,” he says, “Plus, I thought you and Combeferre were like, best pals. Is he not your boy toy right now?”

 

“Um, first of all, WE” she gestures back and forth between Grantaire and herself, “are best pals. Second of all, Combeferre and I are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment. Third of all, he was never my ‘boy toy.’”

 

“Excuse me? What could possibly have happened? Combeferre is probably, like, the chillest dude ever. The literal buddha. How can you not be on speaking terms?”

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

“Do you think I have somewhere to be?”

 

“Ugh,” she says, “I kind of messed things up. As I tend to do.”

 

“You’re probably overreacting.”

 

“He asked me ‘what are we,’ which was cringey and threw me off my game. And then I told him that we didn’t have to label ourselves, and I liked what we were doing. And then he was like, ‘I’m just wondering where this is going’ and I took it to mean that he didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. But I think he was just trying to say that he wanted to be more. I’m not sure but I kind of feel like a dick now.”

 

“You are a dick,” he says, laughing, “But I understand why you thought what you did. You should just text him and tell him you overreacted and you’re dying to be his girlfriend.”

 

“Ew, I hate apologizing. Plus, I’m not dying to be his girlfriend. I like being with him and kissing him,” at that, Grantaire makes a face, “shut up, and doing that kind of stuff with him, but I don’t get why he feels the need to have some sort of possessive claim on me.”

 

“I don’t think that’s what he wants, though,” Grantaire says, “I just don’t think he gets the fact that commitment isn’t your thing.”

 

“Who said commitment isn’t my thing?” she asks indignantly.

 

“Come on, Ep,” he says, “You’ve literally said it before.”

 

“Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve changed.”

 

“So you do want to be his girlfriend?”

 

“I never said that! I just don’t see why he had to go and overcomplicate the good thing that we had going on. Plus, what if we did date, and then he inevitably realized that I’m awful? That would hurt a lot more than if we didn’t have a label on us.”

 

“Ep, you’re actually not awful. And I’m pretty sure Combeferre, like, worships the ground you walk on. He’s probably written so much poetry about you,” he says, “Why not give it a try?”

 

“I’m not girlfriend material,” she says, “I’m not good in relationships. I’m not good for him, anyway.”

 

“At least the guy you’re into actually likes you! Some of us aren’t so lucky,” he laughs, “So speaking as someone in my position, I cannot believe you.”

 

“Ugh, I’m sorry. I’m here talking about my shitty problems when you have even worse shitty problems. I’m awful, forgive me. I’ll tell Combeferre I overreacted. Now let’s stop talking about me,” she says, “Your nails are finished. Cute, right?”

 

~~~

 

_To: Combeferre (9:51 PM)_

_maybe I overreacted._

 

Texting Eponine is frustrating. Combeferre can’t tell if she's being passive aggressive or if she actually means she overreacted. What does he even say to that? He’s saved from replying when she texts him again.

 

_To: Combeferre (9:52 PM)_

_as much as i hate to admit i don’t want to cut all ties with you_

_To: Combeferre (9:53 PM)_

_plus, i like your friends. that’s the real reason i’m letting myself forgive you_

 

**To: Eponine (9:54 PM)**

**thank god**

**To: Eponine (9:54 PM)**

**not talking to you on a daily basis was really taking its toll on me**

**To: Eponine (9:54 PM)**

**i think i found a gray hair yesterday**

 

_To: Combeferre (9:55 PM)_

_definitive proof u r an old man_

**To: Eponine (9:55 PM)**

**would an old man be sitting on his roof right now with binoculars waiting for the blood moon?**

 

_To: Combeferre (9:56 PM)_

_yes_

 

**To: Eponine (9:57 PM)**

**then I guess I am an old man**

 

**To: Eponine (9:57 PM)**

**are you looking at it?**

 

_To: Combeferre (9:59 PM)_

_should I be?_

 

**To: Eponine (10:00 PM)**

**YES**

**To: Eponine (10:00 PM)**

**get outside rn**

 

_To: Combeferre (10:01 PM)_

_i don’t see anything_

**To: Eponine (10:02 PM)**

**eponine it’s literally right there in the sky**

 

_To: Combeferre (10:02 PM)_

_WO W I SEE IT WTF_

_To: Combeferre (10:03 PM)_

_i love it so much why does it look like that_

 

**To: Eponine (10:04 PM)**

**ok so the earth blocks all the sunlight from hitting the moon during an eclipse. and when the shadow of the earth completely covers the moon it appears red because the tiny bit of sunlight that pokes out from behind the moon is the same red light that we see at sunrise and sunset. it’s so fucking COOL**

 

_To: Combeferre (10:06 PM)_

_wow you would know that i’m impressed_

 

~~~

 

There won’t be another blood moon for eighteen years. Eponine’s glad she texted him, or else she never would have known about it. And also, she would still be wallowing in self pity and painting her nails obsessively. She falls asleep smiling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please give feedback i live for it


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit friends it has been a mighty long time since my last update i am so sorry find it in your pure hearts to forgive me even though i’m so undeserving!!!! my life is literally the equivalent of ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ right now and i just submitted my first round of college apps!!!!!! i’m applying EARLY DECISION TO ONE which means that if i get in i’m legally obligated to go there and if i don’t get in the admissions officers literally better watch out for me because i will without a doubt be mentally unstable as hell!!! but anyway needless to say i’ve been writing college essays left and right (they’ve all been trash) and i haven’t found time for this beloved story. but right now i’m eating cashews and drinking pomegranate juice and i’m feelin good and stress-free (for now) and ready to write so enjoy folks!!!!!!   
> also on a story-related note i decided I’m making all of the Amis in this story seniors. they can still be the same age or whatever but I wanted to add in the stress of applying to college to their already high stress levels b/c i am evil. nothing will really change other than the fact that they’re seniors

The erratic thumping of her heart is her only distraction. It’s 11 PM on a Saturday night and she’s sitting on the curb in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt, shivering in the 40 degree weather. There’s a dull ache coming from the left side of her face where her father hit her hardest, but it’s nothing compared to the stinging of the tears that sit unshed in her eyes. She hasn’t cried in years. It’s just that she’s just so fucking tired of it! Tired of being made to feel as though she’s nothing, tired of being trampled on, tired of being beaten down - literally. She can take care of herself, really - she’s done it before - but she’s not sure what’ll happen if she’s alone right now. She knows it won’t be pretty. Looking at Combeferre’s number in her phone literally causes her physical pain, but it’s either that or she jumps off the nearest bridge. Wiping away a stray tear that escaped against her will, she presses the call button.

 

“Hello?” a familiar voice answers.

 

“Um, Combeferre, hi,” she says through tears, “How are you?”

 

“I’m alright… How are you?” he asks, confusion apparent in his voice.

 

“I’m okay,” she says, although her sniffles say otherwise.

 

“You don’t sound okay,” he says, “Do you need something?”

 

“Yeah, actually,” she sniffles again, trying her best not to sound pathetic, “Could you maybe come get me right now? I’m sorry it’s late.”

 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, alarmed.

 

“Um, I don’t know. I’m on Maple Street,” she says.

 

“Okay, I’m coming,” he says, “Stay there, okay?”

 

“Okay,” she hangs up.

 

Combeferre arrives in a little under ten minutes. It makes Eponine happy that he probably went over the speed limit to get there faster.

 

“What happened?” he asks, pulling her off the curb and into a hug. His arms are warm. She doesn’t complain.

 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” she says into his shirt, “I probably overreacted. You didn’t need to come here.” She pulls away and Combeferre sees her face in the dim light of a streetlamp.

 

“Jesus,” he breathes.

 

“It’s literally not a big deal -”

 

“Fuck that, Eponine, it is a big deal,” he interrupts, “Do you think I’m okay seeing you with bruises all over your face?”

 

“Do you think I’m okay with having bruises all over my face?” she asks angrily.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to sound inconsiderate. I just wish you weren’t in that environment. I wish you weren’t around them.”

 

“Me too,” she laughs. She could have almost been mistaken for happy if she had not at that moment wiped another stray tear from her face.

 

“Come on,” he says, guiding her to his car. He doesn’t mention her tears, for which she is thankful.

 

Once they get to his house, he speaks again. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

 

“Not particularly,” she says.

 

“Okay,” he says, leading her up the stairs, “What do you want, then?”

 

“Can we just, like, sit? Or lie down in your bed?” she asks.

 

“That’s a pretty tall order. I don’t think I’ll be able to swing that,” he says, laughing. She smiles as much as the situation permits.

 

Hours have passed and they’re lying in his bed, legs intertwined this time. He’s arranged her long hair into a messy braid.

 

“Do I ever get to meet your brother?” Combeferre asks.

 

“Never. He wouldn’t like you,” she laughs.

 

“What?” he asks indignantly, “Why the hell not?”

 

“Nothing personal,” she laughs, “He just doesn’t like guys I talk to. Protective little brother and that.”

 

“I want to meet him anyway. I’m a cool dude, honestly. There’s no way he can’t like me. We can go get ice cream,” he says.

 

“He’s twelve, dude, not six.”

 

“I’m seventeen and I love ice cream. There’s no age limit on ice cream.”

 

“He’ll tear you apart,” she laughs, “You’re too vanilla.”

 

“Are you actually saying I’m more vanilla than your twelve-year-old brother?”

 

“He’s seen some shit.”

 

“I’ve seen shit!”

 

She rolls her eyes. “He has another parent teacher conference this week. You can come with me, if you want. I can say you’re my husband.”

 

“Ep, I’m flattered, but I’m only seventeen,” he says seriously, “I’m not ready to get married.”

 

She shoves him lightly. “Shut up. I’ll ask him if it’s okay for you to come.”

 

“Does he know who I am?” he asks.

 

“He knows I’ve been hanging out a lot with someone who isn’t Grantaire,” she says.

 

“Does he like Grantaire?” he asks.

 

“Grantaire and I literally raised him,” she laughs.

 

He doesn’t reply immediately.

 

“What’s your deal?” she asks, flicking his forehead.

 

“Have your parents always -”

 

“Sucked?” she asks. He nods.

 

“Not always,” she replies, “They used to be okay. Or maybe not - I was too young to remember if they were ever genuinely nice people, but they were alright to me, anyway.”

 

“What happened?” he asks.

 

“Everything got weird when Gavroche was born. I was, like, four or five,” she says, “My sister was only three. We had to move, and then they started getting mean. They started by just yelling at us for just standing there, and shit like that. Then pushing us around when we got in the way. I don’t know.”

 

“Where’s your sister now?” he asks slowly. He remembers she said something about foster care.

 

“Why are you so curious?” she asks, rolling over so their legs are no longer touching.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “Forget I asked.”

 

“The situation is just weird. I doubt you’d be interested. Let’s change the subject,” she says, “If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?”

 

He accepts the question with no hesitation, not wanting to pry into matters she’s clearly uncomfortable with. “Easy. Backpacking around Europe.”

 

“Backpacking around Europe is all fun and games until you realize you can only shower like once a week,” she says.

 

“We’d stay in like, hostels and shit.”

 

“That sounds not too bad. Any country in particular?” she asks.

 

“All of them. Every single country,” he says, laughing, “Where would you go?”

 

“Dude, I don’t know. France, maybe? I mean, I haven’t taken French for the past four years just for kicks. Plus, they have good museums, right? I love a good museum,” she says, “Oh, and croissants. Definitely France.”

 

“You can go with Enjolras,” he laughs.

 

“Excuse me?” she asks.

 

“Enjolras is a slut for France. He’s obsessed.”

 

“He’s probably rich enough to organize some sort of social justice field trip to France, though, isn’t he?” she says.

 

Her phone rings before he can reply. It’s Montparnasse.

 

She shrugs and answers it. “Hello?”

 

“Hey, ‘Ponine, where are you?” he asks.

 

“Um. Out,” she replies hesitantly, “Why?”

 

“Your dad’s looking for you,” he says.

 

“Tell him to stay the hell away from me,” she says. Combeferre furrows his eyebrows.

 

“You know I can’t say that. He wants to talk to you, anyway, so come home at some point. And don’t be afraid to visit me sometime. I miss you,” he says.

 

“Yeah, okay, maybe. I miss you too,” she says, “Bye.”

 

“Who was that?” Combeferre asks casually.

 

“Montparnasse,” she says, picking at her already chipped nail polish.

 

“Isn’t he a drug dealer?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” she replies, “So?”

 

“Just asking,” he says, “How do you know him, anyway?”

 

“We like, grew up together. He’s a family friend.”

 

“Your family has friends?”

 

She laughs bitterly. “I wish they didn’t.”

 

“You’re not going back there tonight, right?” he asks. “I can pick up your brother, too. He shouldn’t be there alone.”

 

“Gav’s at a friend’s house. But I probably have to go back. Travis wouldn’t let me sleep over,” she says.

 

“Okay, fuck Travis. He doesn’t even know you’re here right now. Plus, my door locks.”

 

“He’s not going to kick me out in the middle of the night and accuse me of being a succubus who’s corrupting you?”

 

“Has that happened before?” he laughs.

 

She glares at him.

 

“I promise the door will stay locked the entire night,” he says.

 

“Are you sure you want me in your house?” she asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

They fall asleep holding hands. Her head is pressed against his chest; his legs are hanging off the end of the bed. The light from the moon shines through the window, making patterns on the wall.

 

~~~

Eponine wakes up warm. Combeferre had lent her clothes to sleep in that were obviously too big for her and she is truly content.

 

“Combeferre?” she says, her voice cracking. She keeps her eyes closed.

 

“Hey,” he whispers from somewhere to the right of her, “Sleep well?”

 

“Shut up,” she says, “I never sleep well.” That’s almost the truth. She never sleeps well when she’s at home. With Combeferre that doesn’t seem to be the case.

 

She’s startled when Combeferre pecks her on the lips. Her eyes spring open. The rising sunlight coming in the window has given him a soft halo.

 

“Happy Halloween” he says, pulling back from her quickly. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to kiss her casually yet.

 

Her eyes spring open. “It’s Halloween?”

 

“Yes,” he laughs, “Did you seriously not know?”

 

“I’ve been busy lately,” she says, “I didn’t even realize.”

 

“Are you coming to Courfeyrac’s party?” he asks.

 

“Courfeyrac is having a party?” she asks.

 

“Yikes,” he says, “You really have been busy. It’s all he’s been talking about. He’s being Oscar Wilde. He’s so excited.”

 

“You know, literally no one’s going to get that costume,” she says.

 

“Oh, we all told him,” he says, “But he doesn’t care. Plus, no one ever gets him.” She nods in agreement.

 

“So are you coming or not?” he asks.

 

“I have work but I could probably take off,” she says, “It depends. What are you going as?”

 

“Waldo,” he laughs, “Like, from Where’s Waldo. I figured I already have the glasses and hair and general aesthetic.”

 

She laughs. “That’s good. I like that. But I don’t have a costume,” she says.

 

“We can go get something today,” he says.

 

“I don’t want some shitty store bought costume! I have a reputation to uphold and I am not just going as a cat or something basic,” she says.

 

“We can figure something out. We have until, like, 7,” he says.

 

“Fine. I’m sure Courfeyrac will be overjoyed,” she says.

 

“He genuinely will be. He worships the ground you walk on,” he says.

 

“Shut up, he does not -”

 

She interrupted by a knock on the door.

 

“Nick?” Travis yells.

 

Eponine is under the bed in less than two seconds.

 

“Uh, yeah?” Combeferre yells back.

 

“We’re leaving,” Travis says, “Come say goodbye.”

 

“Uh, okay, give me a minute,” Combeferre says through the door, crouching down to look at Eponine under the bed.

 

“My family is going camping,” he whispers, “I’ll be back in like five minutes.”

 

She looks around. Combeferre has really fucking weird stuff. There are some clothes, an unmarked box of suspicious origins with holes in it, and what looks to be a taxidermy alligator head. How do you lose that?

 

In less than five minutes Combeferre is back and sticking his head under the bed.

 

“You ready?” he asks.

 

“Do we have your house to ourselves right now?” she asks, not answering his question.

 

“Yes,” he laughs, “Why?”

 

“Well,” she says slowly, “That means you can make us breakfast and I can go into the kitchen without fearing for my life.”

 

All Combeferre has in his kitchen are Lucky Charms and coffee but they enjoy it all the same.  

 

“Do you want me to call Josh?” Combeferre asks.

 

“Ugh, I hate him,” she says, “Yeah. I don’t want to talk to him. Always breathing down my neck, being gross and creepy. He’s the worst.”

 

“Does he try to hit on you?” Combeferre asks.

 

She throws her spoon at him. “Gross, no. Don’t ask me that. Don’t be weird.”

 

“Sorry,” he says, “What should I say?”

 

“Say you’re my husband,” she says between bites of cereal.

  
“Won’t that be suspicious?” he asks.

 

“You’re literally no fun,” she says, laughing, “Say you’re my dad.”

 

“Does he know your dad?” he asks.

 

“He knows I have bruises all over me 90 percent of the time. I don’t think he thinks I give them to myself,” she says.

 

“Probably not the best idea to say I’m your dad then,” he says.

 

“You know what, just take me to the Musain. I’ll tell him in person. He’ll see my gross battered face and take pity on me,” she says.

 

“Don’t talk about your face that way,” he says, “I like your face.”  

 

Eponine mimics vomiting.

 

“Do you want me to take you home to get clothes before we go?” he asks.

 

“Heck no,” she says, “I’m not going back there. Can’t I just wear yours?”

 

“You’re drowning in those. I can’t let you out of the house like that,” he says.

 

“I’ll just wear the ones I came in. No big deal. Can I shower?” she asks.

 

Eponine tries to take a quick shower so she’s not left to face her own thoughts for too long. Combeferre is a distraction to the constant negativity that’s beginning to permeate her tough outer facade, but it’s when she’s alone that it hits her. The scalding water stings on her cuts and bruises but she doesn’t mind. She’s turned the water to the hottest setting - so why can’t she feel anything?

 

She avoids looking at herself in the mirror when she gets out. She puts her t-shirt and jeans on over her still-slightly-wet body and leaves the bathroom.

 

“Ready to go,” she yells to Combeferre.

 

He took a shower too, in another bathroom obviously, and his wet curls flop over his forehead. Eponine thinks it’s nice.

 

It’s 40 degrees outside. Combeferre gives her a jacket but it makes her feel weak and stupid so she gives it back.

 

“You’re wet,” he says, “You’ll literally freeze.”

 

“Shut up. I don’t want it,” she says.

 

“Okay, sorry,” he says, “You don’t have to yell at me.”

 

“You shouldn’t have given me a jacket.”

 

They sit in tense silence for minutes that feel like hours. Eponine knows she’s being mean and unreasonable but she’s just in such a bad mood. Over everything. She doesn’t particularly like going out when she has bruises this severe on her face but there’s only so much she can do. She doesn’t particularly like that the only time she feels happy is when she’s with Combeferre. She doesn’t particularly like feeling dependent.

 

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says after fifteen minutes, pulling into a random parking lot.

 

“Don’t be,” she says, “You didn’t do anything.”

 

“I don’t want to upset you,” he says.

 

“Combeferre, oh my God, stop being so fucking nice,” she says, “Stop being so fucking likeable.”

 

“Woah, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t realize that being nice was such an awful thing, my bad -”

 

“Stop it!” she interrupts, “Just yell at me, or something.”

 

“I don’t want to yell at you -”

 

“Please just shut up!” she yells, “For a minute, please. Stop being nice.”

 

He shuts up. Honestly, he’s not mad at her. He understands. She’s been through a lot and she doesn’t know how to react to kindness right now. Or any time, really.

 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he hears a sniffle. He turns to her. She’s… crying?

 

“Don’t look at me,” she says.

 

He turns and looks straight ahead. “Eponine, please talk to me.”

 

“I really cannot right now,” she says, “Can you just take me home?”

 

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

 

“No, it’s fucking not,” she says, hands covering her face, “I don’t know what I want.”

 

“We can just sit,” he says.

 

Eponine is really crying. Big sobs, not like the few tears she shed the night before. Combeferre doesn’t know what to do, honestly. Normally he would give someone who’s crying a hug (he’s a very tactile person) but he doesn’t think Eponine would take well to being touched right now.

 

After a few minutes, her sobs die down. She finally speaks: “I’m just so tired, you know?”

 

“Tired of what?” he asks.

 

“Everything!” she says, laughing, “I don’t want to fucking deal with this! I shouldn’t have to, you know? I should be able to go to school and apply to college and have boyfriends and girlfriends and regular friends and go to parties without having the constant stress of dealing with my father. I just shouldn’t!”

 

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

 

“And it’s fucked me up!” she says, “Like here you are, a nice, beautiful person, and I’m so awful to you. What the hell is my problem? I wish you would be mean to me back.”

 

“You’re not mean to me, Eponine, really,” he says, “I understand. Please don’t let me add to your stress. I want to be something good in your life.”

 

“I don’t deserve you,” she says.

 

“I don’t deserve you!” he says, “You’re a wonderful person. A beautiful, amazing person who’s seen some shit.”

 

She dissolves into sobs again. “Fuck. I’m sorry, this is gross,” she says, wiping her face, “I really don’t do this often.”

 

“It’s fine, really,” he says. Taking a risk, he takes her hand in his own. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

 

“Is this okay?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” she says.

 

“Are we okay?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” she says.

 

After about five minutes, he asks, “Are you okay?”

 

“No,” she says, “But I want to be happy today. It’s Halloween and I want a costume. I get to pretend to be someone I’m not and all that.”

 

He presses his lips softly to her forehead.

~~~

Soon, they arrive at the Musain. There are a billion things Eponine would rather do than go in and face Josh right now, but it has to be done. She wipes her face the best she can, looking in the little mirror in the car. Her face is red and blotchy in addition to the bruises. Yikes.

 

She and Combeferre enter the coffee shop, and the little bell attached to the door announces their presence. Eponine spots Josh behind the counter and sighs, walking up to him.

 

“Hi Josh,” she says, “I’m not feeling very well today. I was in the neighborhood, um,” she looks at Combeferre anxiously, “on the way to the doctor’s. Can I reschedule my shift?”

 

Josh’s eyes suspiciously dart to Combeferre, then to his hand around hers, then to Eponine, then back to Combeferre.

 

“Actually, can I talk to you for a minute, Eponine?” he asks, “In the back?”

 

“Um,” she looks at Combeferre again, “Sure. But I have that doctor’s appointment soon, so I can’t be too long.”

 

“That’s fine,” he says, “It won’t be long.”

 

Once they’re in the back room, Eponine asks, “Are you going to fire me? Because I really need this job. I can work extra hours -”

 

He cuts her off. “I’m not firing you, silly,” he says. Eponine hates him. “I wanted to talk to you about your boyfriend back there. Is he your boyfriend?”

 

She slowly shakes her head no. It’s true, they aren’t officially an item, but they are as good as dating.

 

“You can be honest with me, Eponine,” he says, “I’m trying to help you. Is your boyfriend -”

 

She cuts him off. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

 

“Alright, whatever you say,” he says, “Whoever he is, did he do this to you?”

 

‘What the fuck is he talking about?’ Eponine thinks. Then it clicks. He thinks Combeferre gave her the bruises. The very notion is ridiculous. She lets out a laugh without meaning to.

 

“You think he gave me these bruises?” she asks, laughing, “Are you serious?”

 

“Eponine, I saw the nervous looks you gave him earlier. And you’ve clearly been crying.”

 

“The reason why I was crying is none of your business,” she says, “You don’t even know me! Let me put your mind at ease, anyway. That kid out there didn’t give these to me.”

 

“I’m trying to help you here, I get it, he’s manipulating you -”

 

“Seriously, dude, you don’t have the right to talk to me about this,” she says, “I need to go.”

 

She walks out of the back room astonished. What the fuck, Josh? Who gave him the right to ask her personal questions? And as if Combeferre could have given her the bruises. That’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week. Combeferre swerves out of the way so he doesn’t hit squirrels when he’s driving. He couldn’t hurt her even if he wanted to.

 

“What did he want?” Combeferre asks, putting his arm around her lightly. She flinches and he pulls his arm back.

 

“He thinks you’re abusing me,” she says glumly, “I told him you’re not. He doesn’t believe me.”

 

“What the hell?” he asks, “Was he serious?”

 

“He was,” she says, “I laughed. The thought was so preposterous.”

 

“Oh God,” he says, burying his face in his hands, “I can’t show my face in here ever again.”

 

“I told him off,” she says, “I hope I still have a job.”

 

They walk back to Combeferre’s car laughing. It feels good after all the crying. It’s almost as if nothing is wrong.

~~~

They get to the party around 8 pm. They arrive holding hands. Everyone eyes them with surprise, although it’s minimal. They knew something was going on.

 

The party turns out just to be an ABC club gathering, not the entire school as Eponine had predicted. Courfeyrac apparently was tired of wild parties (at his house) as they got too messy and he “didn’t need that kind of responsibility.”

 

Everyone’s costumes are great: Eponine ends up being Dwayne Johnson in that one picture where he’s wearing a turtleneck and a fanny pack (what did you expect, it was last minute) and Combeferre is, as expected, a very accurate Waldo. Courfeyrac, true to his word, is Oscar Wilde,  complete with a velvet suit and fur coat. Joly is a pirate, and for the occasion, he swapped his prosthetic leg for a peg leg. In Eponine’s mind, he wins coolest costume just for that fact. Musichetta and Bossuet are Kim Possible and Ron Stoppable, respectively. It’s beautiful. Feuilly is Batman and Bahorel is Robin. It’s kind of funny for Batman to be so much smaller than Robin but it’s adorable. Jehan is wearing some sort of medieval (Eponine is awful at guessing time periods of clothes) outfit and holding a skull. Combeferre tells her that he’s supposed to be Hamlet. Grantaire is Guy Fieri, complete with flame shirt (which Eponine will be borrowing completely unironically), cargo shorts, and backwards sunglasses. Enjolras is some guy in a white 18th century wig (apparently Robespierre, whoever that is) and everyone thinks it’s hilarious. Cosette is Daenerys from Game of Thrones and as soon as she walks into the room everyone is silent. It’s that good. Marius is a store-bought cowboy, but it’s Marius so what did you expect, really.

 

No one mentions Eponine’s bruises. Grantaire does give her a look, though, as if to say “we’ll talk later.”

 

The night is fun, which isn’t a big surprise. Eponine always has fun with the social justice squad. She’s sprawled on the couch, very drunk, and in between a very drunk Bahorel and a very drunk Feuilly. A very drunk Combeferre had gone somewhere to get something (Eponine can’t remember what) a few minutes ago. She already misses him.

 

“If you could have any pet, what would it be and what would you name it?” Eponine asks.

 

“I would… have a ferret. And I would name it Feuilly,” Bahorel says, laughing.

 

The other two laugh harder than they would have had they not been inebriated.

 

“I would have a dog. A pug. Named… Fox Mulder. Or Dana Scully. You know what, definitely Scully. She’s so much cooler than Mulder,” Feuilly answers.

 

They laugh again.

 

Bahorel asks, sobering up, “Eponine, can I ask you something?"

 

She nods. 

 

"What happened to your face?” he asks. 

 

“Dude, you can’t ask that,” Feuilly whispers loudly, probably thinking he’s being sneaky in his current state of intoxication.

 

“If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone,” she says.

 

“We won’t,” they say.

 

“Combeferre did it,” she says.

 

Laughing at the horrified looks on their faces, she says, “Just kidding. But today at work my boss asked me if he did it. It was wild. As if Combeferre could hurt a fly.”

 

“Did I hear my name?” Combeferre asks, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. His eyes are wide. Something isn’t right.

 

“Yeah, I was telling them about what Josh said earlier today,” she says.

 

He laughs weakly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks.

 

She follows him into an empty bedroom.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

 

He hesitates as if he doesn’t know how to word what he wants to say. “I just got a call from my dad,” he finally says.

 

Eponine doesn’t know what to say. Combeferre never said anything about his dad, ever, now that she thinks about it. She’s about to reply when he speaks again.

 

“Funny thing is,” he says weakly, “My mom told me my dad was dead.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ok this story took an unexpected turn honestly i don’t know where that came from. i truly have no plan for this story and it just kind of rolls out and this is the direction it’s heading so we shall see. i also did not edit or reread this chapter because it's 2 am and i am weary. i hope u enjoyed and please give feedback! next chapter will probs be more interesting

**Author's Note:**

> pls give feedback. THANK YOU


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